THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


MEREDITH  WILLSON  LIBRARY 
STANLEY  RING  COLLECTION 


/V? 


Ijj 


MY    LIFE 


ii:'»i  iiic   Onjii.ui  i'au.iii.y  by   1  iicubaid   Lliaytya;i   in   lussissiun  of  h'liucdlcr  &   C\ 

C,\Lvi;    A:^   C'aioik.v 


MY  LIFE 


BY 


EMMA  CALVE 

TRANSLATED  BY 

ROSAMOND  GILDER 


D.    APPLETON     AND    COMPANY 
NEW  YORK    : ;  LONDON    :  :  MCMXXII 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,    BY 

APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1923,  by  Curtis  Publishing  Company 

MIKTEB   IN   THE    UNITED    STATES   OF  AMERICA 


Music 
Uluaa 

H2-0 


Sweetness  and  strength,  high  tragedy  and  mirth. 
And  but  one  Calve  on  the  singing  earth. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 


11G37:,7 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.     Childhood 1 

II.     Years  of  Study 23 

III.  Debuts  in  Brussels  and  Paris  ....  31 

IV.  Suffering  and  Sickness 43 

V.     Final   Preparation 47 

VI.     A  Tour  in   Italy 55 

VII.     The  Holy  City 63 

VIII.     A  Venetian  Triumph 69 

IX.     Dark   Hours 75 

X.  "Cavalleria"  and  "Carmen"  in  Paris      .  79 

XI.     The  Court  at  Windsor 87 

XII.  The    Metropolitan    Opera    House,    New 

York 99 

XIII.  En  Route  through  the  United  States   .  113 

XIV.     A  Spanish  Audience 125 

XV.      The  City  of  Mexico 131 

XVI.     A  Cuban  Interlude 135 

XVII.     St.  Petersburg 139 

XVIII.  A   Concert   in   the   Palace   of  the 

Sultan    of    Turkey 147 

vi'" 


CONTENTS 

"HAPTEB  PAGE 

XIX.  CabriSres 153 

XX.  Two  Famous  Opera  Singers      ....  161 

XXI.  Artists  and  Friends 171 

XXII.  A  Monk  of  the  Order  of  the  Vedantas  185 

XXIII.  Mistral 196 

XXIV.  Around  the  World 201 

XXV.  During  the  Great  War 213 

XXVI.  A  Nest  of  Young  Song  Birds  ....  225 

XXVII.  A  Day  at  Home 241 

XXVIII.  Health   and   Hygiene 249 

XXIX.  Art  and  Song 255 

XXX.  A  Happy  Return 267 

Index 275 


VIU 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Calve  as  Carmen Frontispiece 

From   the   Original   Painting   hy   Theobald 
Chart  ran 

Facing  Pagt 

Emma  Calve  at  Five 6 

Emma  Calve  During  Her  Student  Years  in  Paris     .  28 

Emma  Calve  in  "Le  Chevalier  Jean"      ....  28 

Emma  Calve  at  Twenty 44 

Emma  Calve  as  Santuzza 44 

Eleonora  Duse 60 

Calve  as  Ophelia 

From  a  Statue  hy  Denys  Peuch   ....  66 

Calv^  as  Sappho 82 

Galli-Marie,  Creator  of  Carmen 82 

Massenet's  Dedication  Written  on  the  Fly-leaf  of 

"Sappho" \      .      .  86 

Queen  Victoria  at  Five 92 

Calv^  as  Carmen 100 

Character  Portrait  of  Victor  Maurel 

From  the  Painting  by  Benjamin  Constant  .  104 

Emma  Calve  on  a  Concert  Tour  in  the  United  States  122 

Calve  as  Ophelia 140 

The  Chateau  of  Cabri^res  as  Seen  from  the  Highway  154 

Calve  Singing  the  "Marseillaise" 214 

Calve  as  Messaline 234 

A  Room  in  the  Chateau  of  Cabrieres        ....  242 

The  Chateau  of  Cabrieres 242 


PRELUDE 

IT  was  in  France,  ah,  many  years  ago! 
The  Midi  sun,  in  all  its  blazing  ardour,  filled 
the  still  air  with  vibrant  heat  and  light.  Along  a 
road  which  led  past  a  chateau,  high  perched  on  its 
rocky  hilltop,  I  was  walking  with  a  group  of  little 
girls,  my  companions  in  the  convent  where  I  was 
being  educated.  The  castle  we  approached  was  the 
only  one  in  the  countryside,  a  proud  place,  noble 
and  aloof.  We  thought  it  very  beautiful,  and  used 
to  gaze  in  awe  and  admiration  at  its  towers  and  tur- 
rets silhouetted  against  the  burning  sky.  On  this 
particular  day  I  seemed  to  see  it  with  new  eyes. 

"Who  knows?"  I  said  to  one  of  my  companions. 
"Perhaps  some  day  that  castle  will  belong  to  me  I" 

My  playmates  looked  at  me  in  astonishment,  and 
then  burst  into  laughter. 

"What  nonsense!"  they  exclaimed.  "You  own 
the  chateau — you!  Don't  be  so  silly!  It's  not  even 
for  sale ;  but,  if  it  were,  how  could  a  poor  little  girl 
like  you  buy  such  a  beautiful  place?" 

I  laughed  with  them  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea, 

xi 


xii  PRELUDE 

and  we  went  on  our  way,  happily  irresponsible  and 
unconscious  of  the  future. 

Yet,  after  all,  in  that  moment  of  prevision,  I  had 
not  been  wrong.  That  castle  was  Cabrieres  where 
I  now  live.  The  dream  came  true,  though  the  way 
was  long  and  hard.  It  led  through  years  of  strenu- 
ous work,  through  sorrow  and  suffering,  through 
difficulty  and  despair.  Sometimes  there  were 
stretches  of  happiness,  where  the  birds  sang  and 
joy  filled  my  heart.  Sometimes  the  road  led 
through  the  dazzling  gateway  of  success,  through 
triumph  and  achievement,  to  a  goal  not  yet  at- 
tained, for,  though  I  own  Cabrieres  and  my  child- 
hood prophecy  has  been  fulfilled,  I  find  that,  once 
started  on  the  arduous  path,  there  is  no  resting  by 
the  way.  Each  year  brings  new  interests  and  pos- 
sibilities, new  striving  for  an  unattainable  ideal. 

One  day  it  occurred  to  me  to  write  down  a  few 
of  the  most  striking  incidents  that  had  taken  place 
along  this  road,  to  record  one  or  two  of  the  scenes, 
sad  or  gay,  humourous  or  pathetic,  that  had  mottled 
with  lights  and  shadows  the  pathway  of  my  life. 
I  have  a  vivid  photographic  memory,  and  I  found 
that  my  pen  could  hardly  keep  pace  with  the  flash- 
ing pictures  that  came  into  my  mind. 

Before  I  realised  it,  I  had  written  what  I  have 


PRELUDE  xiii 

here.  It  is  not  a  treatise  on  art  or  life,  nor  has  it 
any  pretensions  to  literary  excellence.  It  is  quite 
simply  the  story  of  my  artistic  career.  I  give  it  to 
the  public  with  something  of  the  perturbation  of  a 
young  singer  making  her  first  appearance  before 
the  footlights. 

The  prelude  is  over.  The  curtain  rises.  But, 
after  all,  I  am  not  a  newcomer  on  the  scene.  I  see 
many  familiar  faces  in  the  audience,  and  I  can  say, 
before  I  begin  my  story : 

"Greetings,  my  friends  and  comrades!" 


MY  LIFE 

CHAPTER  I 

CHILDHOOD 

T  WAS  born  in  the  Department  of  Ave5rron  in 
-■•  southern  France,  on  a  wild  and  rocky  upland 
of  the  Cevennes  mountains  where  my  forebears  had 
lived  for  countless  generations.  The  country  is 
rugged,  desolate.  Its  limestone  cliffs,  its  deep 
valleys  and  mysterious  grottos  are  filled  with  a 
romantic  charm.  To  the  south,  lordly  mountains 
raise  their  peaks  against  the  sky,  crowned  like  royal 
princesses,  with  flashing  diadems  of  stone. 

This  part  of  France  is  little  known  to  the  out- 
side world.  Only  recently,  since  the  Gorges  of  the 
Tarn  have  been  opened  to  the  public,  have  strangers 
visited  our  corner  of  Aveyron.  To  me,  it  has  al- 
ways seemed  beautiful.  I  love  its  lonely  stretches, 
the  strange  colours  of  its  rocks,  its  hills  and  valleys. 
It  has  about  it  something  of  the  fascination,  the 
melancholy,  of  the  desert,  and  so  I  call  it  "L'Avey- 
ron  Petre,"  thinking  the  while  of  "stony  Arabic." 

1 


MY  LIFE 

This  region  was  once  the  haunt  of  the  Ruthenian 
tribes,  whom  the  Roman  legionaries  conquered  on 
their  way  northward  through  ancient  Gaul.  The 
Romans  built  their  roads  along  the  high  plateaux, 
imperishable  roads  that  can  be  followed  to  this 
day.  One  of  my  learned  friends  has  told  me  that 
Caesar,  in  his  Commentaries,  describes  this  tribe 
of  Ruthenians  as  "an  indomitable  race,  living  like 
wolves  in  their  impenetrable  forests." 

Alas!  The  forests  have  disappeared,  but  we, 
the  people,  are  still  untamed,  clinging  to  our  tradi- 
tions, deeply  religious,  passionately  attached  to  the 
soil.  As  for  me,  I  am  unmovable!  My  roots  are 
in  the  past,  I  am  part  of  that  earth,  those  rocky 
mountains,  that  burning  southern  sky.  Elsewhere, 
I  am  in  exile.  I  must  return  to  that  small  spot  of 
land,  my  "little  country"  on  the  mountainside,  if  I 
am  to  keep  well,  if  I  am  to  maintain  my  happiness, 
my  courage  and  my  voice ! 

For  centuries,  my  forebears  lived  in  the  old 
family  house  or  oustal,  as  it  is  called,  at  La  Bastide, 
where  I  passed  the  second  part  of  my  childhood. 
Thej^  were  stern  and  hardy  men,  owners  of  the 
land,  cultivators  of  the  soil.  They  cared  nothing 
for  money,  preferring  their  independence,  proud 

2 


CHILDHOOD 

to  pass  on  their  property  from  father  to  son. 
The  plateau  of  Larzac,  where  they  lived,  is  one 
of  the  loveliest  of  the  Cevennes.  It  has  seen  many 
battles  since  the  days  of  the  Roman  legions — the 
wars  of  religion,  the  descents  of  the  English.  At 
one  time  it  was  inhabited  by  the  Knights  Tem- 
plars, who  took  refuge  there  from  the  persecutions 
of  Philip  le  Bel.  They  built  themselves  fortified 
chateaux,  and  their  presence  is  still  a  part  of  the 
traditions  of  the  countryside.  To  this  day,  when  a 
child  shows  unusual  signs  of  intelligence  or  char- 
acter, or  is  more  than  ordinarily  beautiful,  it  is  said 
of  him: 

"He  is  a  true  son  of  the  Templars!" 
My  father,  who  was  the  eighth  son  of  the  family, 
broke  away  from  the  traditions  of  his  clan  and 
ventured  upon  new  lines  of  work.  He  became  in- 
terested in  the  railroad  then  being  built  in  the 
Rouergue.  Later  an  associate  involved  him  in  an 
enterprise  which  took  him  to  Spain.  My  mother 
followed  him,  taking  me  with  her.  I  was  then  only 
three  months  old.  One  business  venture  following 
upon  another  kept  my  father  there  until  my  sev- 
enth year,  so  that  the  first  language  that  I  spoke 
was  Spanish. 

3 


MY  LIFE 

One  of  the  most  vivid  memories  of  my  childhood 
centres  around  an  incident  that  took  place  during 
our  stay  in  Spain.  It  illustrates,  more  vividly  than 
any  amount  of  description,  the  courage  and  energy 
which  were  striking  characteristics  of  my  mother's 
nature.  She  was  free  and  fearless,  a  woman  of 
strong  opinions  and  of  a  ready  address.  While  her 
heart  was  warm  and  generous,  she  was  impulsive 
and  wilful,  and  had  no  hesitation  in  carrying  into 
effect  what  she  thought  to  be  right. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  Spain  was 
in  a  condition  of  acute  political  excitement.  Don 
Carlos,  Duke  of  Madrid,  the  last  of  the  long  line 
of  claimants  to  the  Spanish  throne,  had  entered  the 
country  with  a  considerable  army  and  organised 
and  led  a  revolt  against  the  existing  government. 
War  and  rumours  of  war  were  all  about  us  in  the 
village  where  we  were  living.  Carlist  and  govern- 
ment soldiers  and  the  members  of  the  ever-present 
guardia  civile  swarmed  its  streets.  Feeling  ran 
high  in  the  Basque  provinces,  where  the  inhabitants 
were  unanimous  in  their  support  of  Don  Carlos, 
who  promised  them  the  regional  privileges  they  so 
much  desired.  Very  naturally,  my  mother's  sym- 
pathies went  with  those  of  her  neighbours.   She  was 

4) 


CHILDHOOD 

keenly  interested  in  all  that  went  on  around  her; 
and  even  I,  young  as  I  was,  had  absorbed  a  little 
of  the  excitement  and  enthusiasm  of  the  moment. 

One  day  my  mother  and  I  were  in  our  living 
room.  She  was  occupied  with  some  domestic  cares, 
and  I  was  lying  on  the  big  bed,  taking  my  after- 
noon siesta.  This  bed  was  one  of  those  large,  old- 
fashioned  affairs,  built  into  a  corner  of  the  room, 
and  quite  as  broad  as  it  was  long,  so  that  I  had 
ample  room  to  roll  about  and  amuse  myself.  I  was 
supposed  to  be  asleep,  but  actually  I  was  day- 
dreaming and  blinking  at  the  sunlight  which  fil- 
tered through  the  closed  blinds. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  thrown  violently  open, 
and  a  man  staggered  into  the  room  and  fell  in  a 
heap  on  the  floor.  I  cried  out  in  terror,  and  my 
mother  leaped  to  her  feet.  She  seemed  to  have 
grasped  the  situation  in  a  flash,  for  she  rushed  to 
the  door  instantly  and  closed  and  bolted  it.  Then 
she  turned  to  the  man  on  the  floor.  He  was 
wounded,  but  not  unconscious,  and  in  a  moment  she 
had  helped  him  to  his  feet. 

"Hide  me!  Hide  me!  For  the  love  of  God!" 
he  exclaimed,  gasping  for  breath  and  clutching  his 

5 


MY  LIFE 

wounded  arm.  "They're  after  me,  and  I  can't  go 
another  step!" 

"Who  are  you?"  my  mother  asked.  "What  has 
happened?  I  see  you  are  hurt.  What  have  you 
been  doing?" 

"Don  Carlos!"  the  man  cried.  "I  am  a  Carlist! 
There  has  been  a  scrimmage  out  there."  He  indi- 
cated the  road  leading  to  the  next  village.  "The 
others  got  away,  but  I  was  shot  in  the  arm.    I  have 

lost  so  much  blood "    The  poor  boy,  for  he  was 

not  much  more  than  that,  turned  to  my  mother  and 
clutched  at  her  desperately.  "Hide  me!  Hide 
me!    I  can't  go  on!" 

While  he  talked,  my  mother  had  been  binding  up 
his  arm  with  strips  of  linen  from  her  work  bag, 
and  now  she  turned  to  me  where  I  sat,  wide-eyed 
and  frightened,  on  the  big  bed. 

"Get  up,  Fantoune!"  she  ordered. 

I  can  see  her  intent  face  and  commanding  pres- 
ence to  this  day.  In  the  haze  that  time  has  drawn 
over  the  long-past  scene,  I  can  still  feel  the  force 
of  my  mother's  will  as  she  dominated  and  controlled 
the  situation. 

"Get  up,  Fantouner  she  repeated,  sharply,  and 

6 


Emma  Cai.vk  at  Fivk 


CHILDHOOD 

by  the  time  I  had  got  to  my  feet  she  was  beside  the 
bed. 

Throwing  back  the  covers  and  feather  mat- 
tresses, she  made  a  place  between  the  springs  and 
the  bedding,  where  she  could  hide  the  fugitive.  He 
crawled  in  near  the  wall,  lying  flat,  so  that  he  could 
breathe  and  so  that  the  weight  of  the  mattress 
and  covers  came  on  him  only  lightly.  Then  the  cov- 
erings were  replaced  and  the  bed  smoothed  over. 

"Now,  mon  enfant"  my  mother  said,  taking  me 
in  her  arms  and  looking  into  my  eyes,  "y^^  must 
lie  down  and  go  to  sleep.  Remember,  not  a  sound, 
not  a  word  from  you!" 

"Yes.  Mamma,  yes,"  I  answered  in  an  awed 
whisper,  my  whole  being  straining  to  meet  the  de- 
mand that  I  read  in  my  mother's  eyes. 

"Not  a  word!"  she  said  again.  "You  have  seen 
nothing.  Do  you  understand?  If  any  one  comes 
in,  you  have  seen  nothing!" 

She  had  hardly  put  me  on  the  bed  in  my  old  posi- 
tion near  the  outer  edge  and  covered  me  with  a 
blanket,  when  we  heard  steps  on  the  roadway  out- 
side. In  a  flash,  my  mother  was  at  the  door,  slip- 
ping back  the  bolt.  Then  she  returned  to  the  work 
she  had  dropped  a  few  moments  before,  and  con- 

7 


MY  LIFE 

tinned  her  occupation  as  though  nothing  had  inter- 
rupted her. 

She  was  only  just  in  time.  Lying  on  the  bed,  my 
heart  gave  a  dreadful  thud  as  the  room  reverberated 
with  a  cascade  of  violent  knocking.  My  mother 
opened  the  door,  and  I  saw  a  flash  of  sunlight  on 
steel  bayonets  and  heard  the  clashing  of  the  sol- 
diers' accoutrement.  I  shut  my  eyes  and  swal- 
lowed hard. 

"You  must  go  to  sleep,"  my  mother  had  said  to 
me.  And  so,  as  the  room  filled  with  soldiers,  and  as 
my  mother's  voice  rose  in  inquiry  and  protest,  I 
tried  to  pretend,  at  least,  that  I  was  sleeping.  I 
shut  my  eyes  tight  and  breathed  slowly,  lying  as 
still  as  a  mouse. 

I  heard  the  men  come  near  the  bed.  I  thought 
my  heart  would  burst  as  it  beat  against  my  side. 
Then  my  mother's  voice  came,  strong  and  reassur- 
ing. 

"Can't  you  see  the  little  one  is  sleeping?"  she 
said  to  the  soldiers.  "Certainly  no  one  has  been 
here!  Why  do  you  come,  disturbing  the  peace  of 
innocent  women  and  children?" 

"Sleep,  sleep,"  I  whispered  to  myself. 

It  seemed  an  eternity  that  the  soldiers  stood 

8 


\ 


CHILDHOOD 

around  my  bed.  Then  they  must  have  gone  to 
look  into  the  wardrobe  and  the  scullery,  for  I  heard 
doors  opening  and  closing,  and  rough  voices  argu- 
ing and  expostulating  in  Spanish. 

Is  it  surprising  that  the  scene  made  a  violent 
and  unforgettable  impression  on  my  young  mind? 
I  cannot,  of  course,  remember  all  the  details,  for 
it  must  have  been  when  I  was  not  more  than  four  or 
five  years  old;  but  the  intensity  of  emotion  that  I 
felt,  the  terror  and  excitement,  are  as  vivid  to  me 
to-day  as  though  it  had  all  happened  a  few  weeks 
ago.  I  experienced  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  a 
new  emotion,  a  feeling  of  dreadful  responsibility, 
for  my  mother  had  made  me  realise  that,  for  her 
sake,  as  well  as  for  that  of  the  poor  wounded  boy, 
I  must  not  move  or  cry  out.  With  all  the  strength 
I  had  at  my  command,  I  obeyed  her  injunction; 
and  I  learned,  in  those  few  moments  of  intense 
experience,  a  useful  lesson  in  self-control. 

When  the  soldiers  finally  left,  the  tension  broke. 
I  am  afraid  I  cried  hard ;  and  I  remember  that,  for 
several  days  after,  I  could  not  hear  my  mother  refer 
to  the  incident  without  an  inexplicable  feeling  of 
distress  and  ahnost  physical  anguish. 

We  lived  for  some  time  in  this  little  village  in 

9 


MY  LIFE 

northern  Spain,  and  my  memories  of  those  far-oflp 
days  contain  a  sort  of  composite  picture  of  our 
occupations  and  interests.  I  am  conscious,  first  of 
all,  of  the  heat  of  the  summer  sun,  the  parched 
streets,  the  sun-baked  plaza  where  a  few  poor  pep- 
per trees  strove  in  vain  to  mitigate  the  heat  of  the 
day.  In  vivid  contrast  to  the  torrid  atmosphere 
outside,  our  little  house,  thick-walled  and  solid,  was 
a  haven  of  delicious  gloom. 

I  was,  on  the  whole,  something  of  a  lizard,  and 
rather  enjoyed  the  scorching  sunlight,  but  my 
mother  kept  me  indoors  during  the  noon  hours,  al- 
lowing me  to  go  out  only  when  she  considered  it 
safe.  She  would  permit  me  to  sit  on  the  doorstep 
and  watch  the  world  go  by  from  that  vantage  point. 

What  an  interesting  world  it  appeared  to  my 
young  eyes!  Stray  dogs  played  in  the  streets. 
Passing  beggars  limped  by.  A  boy  driving  a  herd 
of  goats  to  the  well  at  the  end  of  our  street  brought 
a  breath  of  the  rocky  hills  to  our  doorsteps.  The 
cacique^  the  rich  man  of  the  village,  occasionally 
hurried  by,  intent  on  his  affairs.  I  think  he  was  the 
only  one  that  ever  hurried  in  the  whole  township. 
Every  one  else  strolled  or  lounged  from  doorstep  to 
doorstep.    Perhaps  his  wealth  was  due  to  this  abil- 

10 


CHILDHOOD 

ity  of  his  to  get  somewhere  quickly,  or  perhaps  the 
habit  had  been  acquired  as  an  unfortunate  result  of 
his  money!  At  any  rate,  he  was  the  most  notable 
figure  under  my  observation;  yet  he  had  little  in- 
terest for  me,  compared  to  the  fascination  I  found 
in  watching  the  gypsies  who  came  occasionally  to 
our  village  and  who  seemed  to  me  the  most  inter- 
esting beings  in  the  whole  world. 

When  they  came  to  sell  baskets  on  the  plaza  and 
to  trade  their  ill-gotten  possessions  with  the  house- 
wives of  the  town,  I  would  slip  down  from  my 
perch  on  the  doorstep  and  cautiously  approach 
them.  How  beautiful  and  romantic  they  seemed 
to  me!  Their  brightly  coloured  rags,  their  spar- 
kling eyes  and  animated  gestures,  their  incompre- 
hensible language,  enthralled  me. 

An  added  charm  was  perhaps  derived  from  the 
fact  that  this  was  forbidden  fruit.  IVIy  mother  had 
warned  me  repeatedly  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  gitanas. 

"They  steal  little  girls!"  she  assured  me. 

But  I  was  not  in  the  least  afraid.  I  may  even 
have  thought  that  it  would  be  rather  amusing  to 
be  stolen! 

Nothing  about  the  gypsies  enchanted  me  as  much 

11 


MY  LIFE 

as  their  songs  and  dances.  I  positively  thrilled 
with  delight  at  the  sound  of  the  throbbing,  rhyth- 
mic music.  I  could  never  get  enough  of  it,  and 
one  day  I  decided  to  follow  a  band  of  gypsies  to 
their  camp. 

I  had  been  sitting,  quietly  watching  them  pack 
up  their  things  and  make  ready  to  start.  My  mother 
was  in  the  house  and  did  not  notice  me  get  down 
from  my  perch  and  follow  them.  I  trotted  along 
the  road  in  their  wake,  regardless  of  dust  and  stones, 
and  with  only  one  idea  in  my  head — not  to  lose  sight 
of  my  friends,  who,  though  they  walked  slowly 
enough,  had  long  legs,  compared  to  mine,  and  were 
some  distance  ahead  of  me. 

Finally,  one  of  them  looked  back  and  saw  my 
small  figure  in  the  distance.  They  waited  until  I 
had  joined  them,  and  then  asked  me  where  I  be- 
longed. It  was  fairly  late  in  the  day  by  this  time ; 
and  as  they  had  reached  their  encampment,  they 
decided  to  have  supper  before  taking  me  home.  I 
was  delighted  to  stay,  and  began  right  away  to  make 
friends  with  the  girls  and  boys  in  the  camp. 

In  the  meantime,  my  mother  had  discovered  my 
absence.  She  looked  for  me  everywhere,  called  in 
the  neighbours  and  instituted  a  search.    She  asked 

12 


CHILDHOOD 

every  one  in  the  village  whether  I  had  been  seen. 
Finally,  in  a  frenzy  of  anxiety,  she  rushed  to  the 
town  hall  and  begged  for  help.  The  whole  police 
force  was  called  into  action ;  and  after  interminable 
conversations  and  arguments,  a  body  of  gendarmes 
was  sent  to  the  gypsy  camp  to  see  whether  I  had 
been  carried  off  into  captivity. 

When  my  mother  and  the  group  of  impressive 
guardians  of  the  law  finally  reached  me,  they  found 
me  as  happy  as  a  little  queen,  dancing  and  singing 
in  the  midst  of  the  gypsy  band,  like  a  true  gitanella. 
I  was  most  reluctant  to  leave  my  new  friends ;  and 
had  my  mother  not  been  there,  I  probably  should 
have  refused  to  budge. 

After  this  adventure,  I  was  watched  more  care- 
fully. Although  I  often  saw  my  friends,  the  gyp- 
sies, in  the  marketplace,  I  did  not  again  attempt 
to  join  them.  From  the  safe  distance  of  my  door- 
step, I  admired  their  dances  and  listened  to  their 
songs,  many  of  which  I  learned  to  sing  myself. 

Was  it  because  of  this  that,  when  I  came  to  act 
Carmen,  I  never  needed  to  be  taught  the  dances 
and  gestures  of  the  Spanish  gypsies?  Was  it  be- 
cause of  these  early  years  in  Spain  that  I  seemed 
to  know  by  instinct  how  to  carry  the  shawl,  how  to 

13 


MY  LIFE 

walk  and  move  and  dance,  when  I  found  myself 
impersonating  the  lawless  gitana  of  Bizet's  famous 
opera?  I  do  not  know,  for  who  can  tell  what  mem- 
ories and  associations  remain  in  one's  inner  con- 
sciousness. Surely  the  impressions  of  childhood  are 
a  permanent  and  vital  part  of  all  one's  later  life, 
and  of  my  early  contact  with  these  strange  people 
undoubtedly  some  trace  remains  imbedded  deep  in 
my  mind. 

Not  long  after  this,  when  I  was  in  my  seventh 
year,  my  parents  decided  to  go  back  to  their  native 
land.  I  spoke  only  Spanish,  and  they  had  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  the  world  forcing  me  to  learn 
French.  When  I  had  finally  mastered  my  new 
language,  I  was  sent  to  a  convent  at  Millau,  not 
far  from  the  home  of  my  father's  family. 

The  atmosphere  of  religion  and  mysticism  in 
which  I  found  myself  in  the  convent  made  a 
deep  impression  upon  me.  I  became  extremely 
devout;  and  when  I  was  confirmed,  I  was  fully 
determined  to  become  a  nun.  Apparently  this  kind 
of  temporary  "vocation,"  or  call  to  the  religious 
life,  is  not  unusual  among  singers  and  actresses. 
I  know  two  very  great  artists  who  have  been 
through  the  same  experience. 

14 


CHILDHOOD 

My  holidays  were  passed  in  the  old  family  oustal 
where  my  father's  sister  lived.  Here  I  found  every- 
thing that  could  delight  the  heart  of  a  child.  The 
old  house,  the  rambling  farm  buildings,  the  bams 
with  their  cattle  and  sheep,  the  meadows,  pastures 
and  gardens  were  my  playground. 

My  aunt's  garden — how  well  I  remember  it! 
Ah,  that  delicious  corner  of  paradise,  where  I  spent 
the  happiest  hours  of  my  youth,  and  where  I 
dreamed  the  first  dreams  of  my  girlhood!  It  was 
built  up  behind  the  house  in  terraces,  as  are  all 
gardens  on  the  mountainside.  Stone  retaining 
walls  divided  it,  and  flagged  steps  led  from  one 
level  to  the  next.  Each  terrace  had  its  own  par- 
ticular use.  One  was  for  the  vegetable  garden, 
another  for  the  fruit  trees,  another  for  shrubs  and 
berry  bushes. 

On  the  highest  terrace  of  all  was  the  flower  gar- 
den, my  own  particular  haunt  and  delight.  Mod- 
est flowers  grew  there ;  lilacs  and  marigolds,  sweet- 
william,  forget-me-nots,  and  the  lovely  odorous 
blooms  of  the  wallflowers,  particularly  dear  to  my 
aunt,  who  used  to  call  them  by  their  old-fashioned 
name  of  violiers. 

I  would  spend  hours  and  hours  on  the  upper 

15 


MY  LIFE 

terrace,  warming  myself  like  a  little  lizard  in  the 
sun,  drinking  in  its  strength  and  radiance.  In  the 
midst  of  my  noisy,  romping  games  I  would  become 
suddenly  quiet,  contemplative,  overcome  with  a  de- 
sire to  lie  on  the  warm  sod  and  dream  of  vague  and 
far-off  things.  Sometimes  I  would  betake  myself 
to  the  corner  farthest  removed  from  the  house, 
where  the  beehives  were  installed.  There  I  would 
remain  standing  immovable,  as  I  had  been  taught, 
watching  the  bees  at  their  fascinating  task. 

When  I  shut  my  eyes,  I  can  still  see  before  me 
the  picture  of  the  sunset  hour  in  that  peaceful 
garden.  My  aunt  is  knitting  her  interminable 
stocking.  Margarido,  her  faithful  servant,  distaff 
in  hand,  works  with  rapid,  skilful  fingers,  singing 
those  very  folksongs  which,  to  this  day,  I  sing  before 
another  sun — the  footlights!  I,  alone,  am  idle, 
watching,  half-hypnotised,  the  circling  of  the  bees, 
which  every  evening  gather  in  dark  masses  near 
their  hives,  buzzing  and  humming  in  unison,  as 
though  chanting  an  evening  hymn. 

"They  are  saying  good  night  to  the  sun,"  Mar- 
garido would  invariably  remark. 

My  aunt  would  nod  her  approval,  and  I  would 

16 


CHILDHOOD 

open  my  eyes  wider  still  with  interest  and  aston- 
ishment. 

Suddenly  the  angelus  rang.  IVIy  aunt  recited 
aloud  her  evening  prayer,  to  which  I  made,  rather 
vaguely,  the  proper  responses.  We  stood  for  a 
moment,  watching  the  sinking  sun,  then  turned  and 
went  into  the  house  for  our  evening  meal. 

Margarido,  my  aunt's  servant,  was  an  orphan 
who  had  given  herself,  of  her  own  accord,  to  the 
Calvet  family  in  her  early  girlhood.  It  was  an  old 
and  honoured  custom  in  our  part  of  the  world,  for 
girls  who  had  been  brought  up  in  an  orphanage  or 
by  the  charity  of  some  religious  organisation,  to 
choose  in  this  way  a  home  of  adoption.  They  be- 
came proud  servants  in  the  families  they  selected, 
refusing  wages,  and  working  freely  and  gladly  in 
return  for  the  good  food,  the  comfortable  lodging, 
and  the  home  which  was  provided  for  them.  They 
were  treated  as  members  of  the  families,  and  some- 
times became  the  mainstay,  almost  the  mistress, 
of  the  household. 

Margarido  was  one  of  these  devoted  and  capable 
women.  She  was  indefatigable,  up  at  da-vvn,  in  bed 
the  last  of  all,  hard-working,  industriou<?,  loyal  and 
good — ah,  infinitely  good ! 

17 


MY  LIFE 

As  for  me,  she  adored  and  spoiled  me.  I  heard 
later  that  as  a  young  girl  she  had  nourished  a  dumb 
and  entirely  unrequited  affection  for  my  father, 
who  was  hardly  more  than  a  boy  when  she  first  came 
to  our  house.  Poor  lovelorn  little  creature,  silent 
and  resigned!  She  turned  her  affection  from  him 
to  the  family  as  a  whole,  and  finally  to  me,  whom 
she  cared  for  with  a  special  and  intense  love  that 
made  her  sometimes  over-indulgent  in  my  regard. 

She  gave  me  everything  I  wanted — the  best 
fruits  of  the  garden,  the  most  delicious  of  all  the 
jams  and  jellies  that  she  made.  I  shall  never  forget 
a  basket  of  cherries  she  let  me  eat  one  day.  They 
were  delectable,  the  first  of  the  season,  treasures, 
but  they  nearly  killed  me! 

She  remained  with  my  aunt  many  j^ears  after  I 
grew  up,  and  finally  died  at  her  post,  very  old,  but 
as  active  and  energetic  as  ever.  On  the  daj^  of  her 
death  she  rose  as  usual  and  went  about  her  busi- 
ness. Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  her  household 
duties,  she  collapsed  on  the  floor.  My  aunt  rushed 
to  her.  It  was  too  late.  She  had  died  instantly, 
without  a  plaint,  working  to  the  last  moment,  as 
she  would  have  wished.  My  poor  aunt  did  not  live 
much  longer.     She  followed  her  faithful  servant 

18 


CHILDHOOD 

to  the  grave  a  few  months  after  Margarido's  death. 
All  this  was,  of  course,  much  later.  In  my  child- 
hood, these  two  dear  women  were  in  their  prime, 
and  surrounded  me  during  my  holidays  with  all  the 
joys  a  child  could  wish. 

At  night,  the  great  hall  of  the  oustal  was  as  fas- 
cinating to  me  as  was  the  garden  by  day.  Vast 
and  smoky,  it  sheltered  all  sorts  of  legends  and 
dreams.  Here,  masters  and  servants  assembled 
nightly  for  prayers.  Here,  in  the  long  evenings, 
the  women  sat  spinning  in  the  flickering  firelight. 
The  old  shepherd  Blaise  regaled  us  with  ghost 
stories,  each  more  dreadful  than  the  last.  The 
women  crossed  themselves.  I  trembled  with  ter- 
ror and  finally  went  to  bed  to  dream  of  goblins, 
gnomes  and  werewolves.  My  appetite  for  the  mar- 
vellous fed  upon  these  tales.  I  actually  experienced 
a  sensation  of  pleasure  in  being  afraid. 

Once  back  at  the  convent,  it  was  my  turn  to  make 
my  comrades  tremble.  I  told  them  the  tales  I  had 
heard,  with  additions  and  amplifications  of  my  own. 
I  finally  discovered  a  way  of  singing  them  in  a  weird 
minor  key,  a  sort  of  melodious  chant,  which  I  im- 
provised as  I  went  along,  and  which  added  greatly 
to  the  effect. 

19 


MY  LIFE 

I  remember  hearing  a  colloquy  between  one  of 
the  Sisters  of  the  convent  and  a  small  comrade  of 
mine. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  child?"  the  Sis- 
ter asked.    "Why  are  you  crying?" 

"Oh,  ma  soeur!"  the  child  answered,  all  in  tears. 
"What  fun  we  are  having!  Emma  Calve  is  mak- 
ing us  cry  with  her  songs!" 

I  think  it  was  from  that  day  that  I  began  to  be 
an  artist,  for  it  was  then  that  I  learned  to  express 
my  own  emotions,  to  externalise  them,  to  convey 
them  to  my  listeners.  How  thrilled,  how  intoxi- 
cated with  delight  I  was,  when  I  felt  my  little  audi- 
ence respond  to  my  mood!  Their  applause  gave 
me  a  hitherto  untasted  sense  of  power,  an  exalta- 
tion, an  indescribable  joy!  Ever  since  that  tender 
age,  I  have  been  dependent  upon  the  exhilaration 
which  comes  with  success. 

I  appeared  before  my  first  grown-up  audience 
on  a  graduation  day  at  the  convent.  This  time  I 
could  not  make  use  of  my  ghost  stories,  but  I  had 
to  sing,  with  all  the  care  and  dignity  I  could  mus- 
ter, "Les  Hirondelles"  by  Felicien  David  and  "Le 
Lac"  by  Lamartine. 

20 


CHILDHOOD 

The  Bishop  of  Rodez,  who  was  officiating  on  this 
occasion,  turned  to  the  Mother  Superior  as  I  fin- 
ished. 

"How  beautiful !"  he  exclaimed.  "What  a  lovely, 
what  an  unusual  voice !  And  her  face  is  extraordi- 
narily expressive!    She  is  an  artist  I" 


I 


CHAPTER  II 

YEARS  OF  STUDY 
LEFT  the  convent  when  I  was  about  fifteen. 


My  father  was  absent  in  Italy,  and  my  mother, 
my  two  brothers  and  I  remained  in  the  little  town 
where  I  had  been  educated.  Our  neighbours  and 
friends  were  not  long  in  making  up  their  minds  that 
I  was  to  become  a  great  artist.  They  talked  of  it 
incessantly  and  asked  me  to  take  part  in  all  the 
celebrations  and  ceremonies  that  took  place  in  the 
village.  All  this  interest  and  attention  impressed 
my  mother.  She  became  accustomed  by  degrees 
to  the  idea  of  my  going  on  the  stage. 

"Every  one  tells  me  a  brilliant  future  is  in  store 
for  you,"  she  said  to  me  one  day.  *'If  you  suc- 
ceed, we  shall  be  able  to  give  your  brothers  a  bet- 
ter education!  It's  worth  trying!  Le  hon  Dieu 
will  help  us!" 

She  was  advised  to  take  me  to  Paris,  for  it  was 
only  there  that  I  could  learn  to  sing.  It  was  a 
formidable  undertaking  in  those  days;  but  without 

23 


MY  LIFE 

further  hesitation,  my  mother  gathered  together  her 
modest  resources  and  started  ahead  of  me,  to  make 
arrangements  for  our  move  to  Paris. 

In  the  meantime,  I  remained  with  my  aunt  and 
spent  my  days,  as  I  had  when  I  was  a  little  child, 
in  the  garden  of  our  old  house.  The  bees  still 
fascinated  me  as  they  had  of  old.  They  represented 
so  many  golden,  lovely  things!  During  my  con- 
vent days,  they  had  provided  me  not  only  with  de- 
licious honey,  but  with  surprises  of  all  kinds  as  well. 

"I  will  buy  you  a  pretty  dress  at  the  St.  Jean," 
my  aunt  used  to  say.  "Margarido  will  take  the 
honey  to  market,  and  with  the  money  it  brings  I  will 
get  you  whatever  you  want." 

So  to  me  the  bees  seemed  like  true  fairies,  dis- 
pensing all  good  things,  from  the  golden  honey 
itself  to  the  still  more  magic  gold  of  the  louis  d'or, 
into  which  it  could  be  transmuted.  Now,  on  the 
eve  of  the  greatest  adventure  I  had  yet  undertaken, 
these  winged  fays  came  again  with  their  tiny  bags  of 
treasure. 

"Take  this,"  said  my  aunt,  pressing  into  my 
hand  a  knitted  bag  full  of  gold  pieces.  "It's  all 
that  we  have  made  from  the  sale  of  the  honey! 
Take  it,  and  may  it  help  you  on  your  way!" 

24 


YEARS  OF  STUDY 

My  darling  little  aunt !  I  can  see  her  now,  hold- 
ing me  in  her  arms  on  that  day  of  parting.  She 
was  deeply  moved,  feeling  that  I  was  embarking  on 
a  long  and  dangerous  journey.  Margarido,  as  she 
packed  my  bags,  expressed  the  anxiety  that  they 
both  shared. 

"Poor  Fantoune,  poor  child!"  she  murmured, 
shaking  her  head  mournfully,  as  she  leaned  over 
her  task.  "Where  is  she  bound  for?  Paris  is  so 
big,  so  distant!  Who  knows  what  will  happen  to 
her?    She  is  going  so  far  away  from  us!" 

She  was  almost  in  tears  by  the  time  everything 
was  ready.  I  kissed  my  aunt  and  hurried  away, 
followed  by  the  old  servant  carrying  my  bags.  We 
went  down  the  hill  path  to  the  highway  below,  where 
I  could  catch  the  diligence  for  Clermont  and  Paris. 
I  must  have  looked  a  melancholy  little  Manon, 
standing  by  the  side  of  the  road  surrounded  by 
bags  and  boxes,  waiting  with  a  sinking  heart  for  the 
stage  coach  and  my  fate! 

When  it  came,  the  only  seat  vacant  was  on  the 
very  top.  I  was  hoisted  up  there  onto  the  im- 
periale,  and  found  myself  installed  next  to  an  old 
gentleman  who  did  his  best  to  make  me  comfortable. 
I  was  grateful  for  his  kindness,  and,  exhausted  by 

25 


MY  LIFE 

my  emotions  and,  lulled  by  the  rocking  of  the  coach, 
I  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

Suddenly  I  felt  an  arm  around  my  waist.  My 
old  friend  was  becoming  a  little  too  attentive!  I 
freed  myself  with  a  jerk,  administering  at  the  same 
time  a  resounding  slap.  The  blow  made  such  a 
noise  that  every  one  on  the  coach  knew  what  had 
happened.  The  driver  stopped  the  horses.  Every 
one  jumped  out  and  talked  at  the  top  of  their  lungs. 
A  sympathetic  young  man  from  the  interior  offered 
me  a  seat  beside  his  parents.  For  the  rest  of  the 
trip,  until  I  joined  my  mother  at  Clermont,  I  was 
well  cared  for  by  these  kind  people.  What  a 
journey  it  was  in  those  days  from  La  Bastide  to 
Paris !  We  went  by  the  way  of  Clermont-Ferrand 
and  Moulin.  It  took  us  days  and  days,  where  now 
it  is  only  a  matter  of  hours.  The  way  was  long, 
and  we  stopped  every  two  or  three  houses,  to  change 
horses. 

Hospitable  taverns  opened  their  doors  to  the 
weary  travellers,  wherever  the  relays  were  made. 
What  noble  feasts  were  spread  in  the  kitchens  of 
those  roadhouses!  Chickens  and  ducks  turned  on 
spits  before  roaring  fires,  in  appetising  readiness! 
One  could  eat  like  a  king  of  all  the  good  things  of 

26 


YEARS  OF  STUDY 

the  earth,  for  the  vast  sum  of  one  franc  fifty — 
ahout  ten  cents  at  the  present  rate  of  exchange  1 
Oh,  times  forever  past!  Oil  sont  les  neiges  d'antan? 

Once  settled  in  Paris,  we  were  faced  with  the 
problem  of  finding  a  teacher.  My  mother,  with  her 
usual  courage  and  energy,  went  straight  to  the  lead- 
ing singing  masters  of  the  day,  and  put  the  prop- 
osition to  them  in  these  terms': 

"Give  my  daughter  a  hearing.  You  yourself  will 
judge  what  talent  she  may  have.  I  am  not  rich, 
but  you  can  have  entire  confidence  in  me.  We  will 
pay  you  as  soon  as  she  has  succeeded!" 

She  was  most  fortunate  in  finding  a  well-known 
singing  teacher,  Jules  Puget,  a  retired  tenor  of  the 
opera,  who  was  willing  to  accept  these  conditions. 
The  lessons  which  he  gave  me  were  excellent.  He 
taught  the  principles  of  the  Italian  hel  canto,  with 
which  he  was  thoroughly  familiar.  He  was  a  tal- 
ented artist  and  had  created  several  important  roles 
during  his  long  career. 

At  the  end  of  three  years  of  study,  he  advised 
me  to  obtain  some  concert  engagements  in  order  to 
accustom  myself,  little  by  httle,  to  singing  in  pub- 
lic. My  very  first  appearance  was  therefore  on  the 
concert  stage  in  the  tiny  hall  of  the  Theatre  de  la 

27 


MY  LIFE 

Tour  d'Auvergne.  The  building  has  long  since 
disappeared,  but  at  that  time  it  was  a  favourite 
place  for  young  singers  to  make  their  debuts.  I 
was  given  fifty  francs  for  my  songs.  With  what 
pride,  with  what  triumph,  I  carried  my  earnings 
back  to  my  mother! 

Like  all  singers,  I  have  been  asked  repeatedly  at 
what  age  I  began  to  sing.  It  seems  to  me  I  have 
always  sung!  In  my  earliest  childhood  I  used  to 
hum  all  day  long,  imitating  everything  I  heard 
around  me.  My  mother  had  a  very  beautiful  nat- 
ural voice.  Although  not  a  musician,  she  sang 
charmingly  all  the  old  songs  of  France,  folksongs 
in  the  dialects  of  the  seventeenth,  eighteenth  and 
nineteenth  centuries,  shepherds'  songs  from  our 
own  country  of  Aveyron.  She  had  an  enormous 
repertory.  One  day  we  tried  to  count  and  classify 
them.  We  found  that,  between  us,  we  knew  about 
two  hundred! 

In  Paris  we  lived,  my  mother,  my  brothers  and  I, 
very  modestly  indeed,  in  a  little  apartment  on 
Montmartre.  I  left  home  before  eight  every  morn- 
ing, walking  halfway  across  Paris  to  my  lessons, 
through  rain  or  snow,  in  soaking  shoes.  I  grew 
rapidly  and  I  was  very  thin. 

28 


u 


YEARS  OF  STUDY 

Next  door  to  us  was  a  market  run  by  a  burly 
butcher  and  his  wife.  They  greatly  enjoyed  lis- 
tening to  my  singing  when,  during  the  hot  summer 
days,  I  practised  with  my  windows  open.  One  day 
my  mother  stopped  at  the  shop  to  do  her  marketing. 

"Your  daughter  has  a  pretty  voice,"  the  butcher 
remarked,  as  he  prepared  her  order.  "My  wife  and 
I  think  she  is  a  wonder!" 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  say  so,"  my  mother 
answered.  "She  works  very  hard,  and  I  hope  some 
day " 

"Yes,  she's  a  fine  singer,"  he  interrupted,  "but 
she's  too  thin.  Much  too  thin!  She  ought  to  eat 
lots  of  beefsteaks  and  cutlets!" 

My  mother  was  taken  by  surprise  at  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  rather  crude  way  of  increasing  trade. 
Before  she  could  answer,  however,  the  astonishing 
man  continued: 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  said.  "To  prove 
to  you  how  much  confidence  I  have  in  your  daugh- 
ter's future,  I'll  open  an  account  for  you  at  this 
shop.    You  can  pay  me  when  she  makes  her  debut !" 

I  have  never  forgotten  these  good  people.  When 
I  was  singing  at  the  Opera  Comique,  we  always 

29 


MY  LIFE 

sent  tickets  to  the  musical  butcher  and  his  family. 
I  have  no  doubt  he  sat  there,  telling  any  one  who 
would  listen  to  him : 

"Do  you  see  that  wonderful  singer?     It  is  en- 
tirely due  to  me  that  she  is  in  such  fine  form!" 


CHAPTER  III 

DEBUTS  IN  BRUSSELS  AND  PARIS 

AFTER  my  first  public  appearance  in  Paris,  I 
travelled  through  France,  giving  a  number 
of  concerts  with  the  Philharmonic  Societies.  These 
first  successes  increased  my  confidence,  and  I  re- 
turned to  Paris  resolved  to  pursue  my  career  with 
even  greater  determination.  Our  resources  were 
rapidly  diminishing.  I  was  not  yet  twenty,  but  it 
behooved  me  to  make  my  debut  immediately.  For- 
tunately, I  had  the  opportunity  to  sing  for  the 
director  of  the  Theatre  de  la  Monnaie  de  Bruxelles. 
He  listened  to  me  attentively,  and  seemed  agreeably 
impressed. 

*' Could  you  be  ready  to  sing  the  role  of  Mar- 
guerite in  'Faust'  within  two  weeks?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  without  the  least  hesitation. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  knew  the  ballad  of  the  King 
of  Thule  from  "Faust,"  and  not  another  note! 
But  I  could  not  miss  the  opportunity.  I  signed 
the  contract  and  immediately  started  to  study  the 
role. 

31 


MY  LIFE 

It  was  no  easy  matter  to  memorise  a  whole  part, 
words  and  music,  in  the  short  time  at  my  disposal, 
but  I  had  unbounded  enthusiasm  and  an  excellent 
memory.  Three  weeks  later  I  made  my  debut  in 
Brussels.  It  was  under  these  circumstances  that  I 
achieved  my  first  operatic  success!  Undoubtedly 
I  was  extremely  inexperienced;  but  my  youth,  my 
voice,  and  the  simple,  naive  manner  in  which  I 
interpreted  my  role,  were  apparently  effective. 

Immediately  after  this,  I  sang  in  Massenet's 
"Herodiade,"  and  Cherubin  and  the  Countess  in 
the  "Noces  de  Figaro,"  in  all  of  which  I  was  re- 
ceived most  cordially.  My  voice  had  a  very  great 
range,  going  from  low  A  in  the  deep  chest  tones  to 
E  above  high  C  in  the  high  head  notes.  In  fact,  my 
range  was  so  great  that  I  was  able  to  sing  both 
Herodias  and  Salome  in  "Herodiade,"  the  first 
being  a  contralto  and  the  second  a  soprano  role. 

I  remember  that  I  made  a  great  hit  at  my  first 
performance  of  Cherubin.  Such  an  absurd  inci- 
dent!   I  laugh  to  this  day  when  I  think  of  it. 

I  was,  as  I  have  said,  very  slender  at  this  time, 
and  the  appearance  of  my  thin  legs,  spider's  legs 
as  my  mother  called  them,  gave  me  the  gravest 
concern.    I  hit  upon  a  brilliant  plan  of  overcoming 

32 


DEBUTS  IN  BRUSSELS  AND  PARIS 

this  defect;  and  when  I  appeared  on  the  stage  the 
first  night  of  the  "Nooes  de  Figaro,"  enormous 
calves  of  cotton  swelled  the  dimensions  of  my  silken 
tights !  The  old  gentlemen  in  the  front  rows  trained 
their  opera  glasses  on  these  superb  affairs.  I  was 
conscious  of  their  attention  and  proud  of  my  success 
until  I  left  the  stage  at  the  end  of  my  first  scene. 
In  the  wings  the  infuriated  director  was  waiting 
for  me. 

^'Ah,  gar  he  shouted,  pointing  at  my  unfortu- 
nate legs.  "What  are  those  hideous  lumps,  I'd 
like  to  know !  I  am  tempted  to  stick  pins  into  them ! 
Stupid  child!  Don't  you  know  that  every  one  is 
laughing  at  you  ?  Do  you  expect  any  one  to  believe 
that  those  fat  excrescences  belong  to  you?  Take 
them  off  instantly!" 

And  so  it  was  that  for  the  second  act  I  had  to 
make  my  entrance  with  my  poor  beanstalk  legs  all 
unadorned !  My  mortification  was  intense.  I  tried 
to  cover  my  legs  with  my  cloak,  but  it  was  impos- 
sible. The  audience  saw  the  change  instantly,  and 
was  highly  amused.  I  was  applauded  and  cheered 
uproariously,  and  indeed  I  doubt  if  I  ever  created 
quite  so  much  excitement  at  the  IVIonnaie  as  I  did 
on  that  night  of  painful  memory! 

33 


MY  LIFE 

I  earned  in  Brussels  during  my  first  year  the  vast 
sum  of  seven  hundred  francs  a  month.  A  fortune  I 
How  little  would  I  have  believed  it,  had  I  been 
told  that  some  day  I  would  get  ten  thousand  francs 
for  a  single  evening's  performance ! 

After  my  first  season,  I  went  home  for  a  rest 
and  holiday.  I  was  eager  to  share  the  news  of  my 
good  fortune  with  all  my  relatives  and  friends  in 
the  town  where  I  had  been  educated. 

"What!  You  are  singing  in  a  theatre!"  ex- 
claimed my  aunt,  when  I  told  her  of  my  engage- 
ment at  Brussels.  "My  poor  child!  You  will  be 
everlastingly  damned!  Who  would  ever  have 
thought  such  a  thing  possible?  A  little  girl  of 
our  family  going  to  be  an  actress — one  of  those 
women  who  could  not  be  buried  in  consecrated 
ground  in  the  old  days!  The  cure  himself  has 
told  me  all  about  it.  It's  terrible,  terrible!"  she 
cried,  rocking  herself  back  and  forth  in  her  chair 
and  bursting  into  tears.    "I  will  pray  for  you!" 

When  I  visited  the  convent  where  I  had  been 
educated,  I  was  received  in  much  the  same  way. 
I  arrived  while  the  service  was  in  progress  and  so 
I  went  up  into  the  gallery  of  the  chapel  and  sang 
Gounod's  "Ave  Maria"  during  the  mass.     How 

34 


DEBUTS  IN  BRUSSELS  AND  PARIS 

proud  and  happy  I  was  to  show  my  former  teachers 
all  the  progress  I  had  made  I  The  Mother  Superior 
received  me  afterward,  affectionately  but  sadly. 

"Alas,  my  dear  child!"  she  said.  "What  an  un- 
fortunate end  for  one  who  had  hoped  to  take  the 
veil!  That  a  former  president  of  the  Children  of 
Mary  should  go  on  the  stage  is  sad  indeed.  Yet 
Monsieur  I'fiveque  foresaw  it!  He  said  long  ago 
that  you  were  a  born  artist."  And  she  added,  in 
the  same  words  as  my  aunt,  "We  will  pray  for 
youl" 

The  most  curious  thing  of  all,  however,  hap- 
pened the  day  that  I  visited  the  little  village  from 
whence  our  family  came.  The  mayor  ordered  the 
tocsin  rung  to  call  the  peasants  in  from  the  fields. 
They  came  running  from  all  sides,  just  as  they 
were,  carrying  their  pitchforks,  their  rakes  and 
scythes,  expecting  at  the  very  least  to  find  the  town 
hall  in  flames!  The  mayor  leaned  out  of  the  win- 
dow and  addressed  the  crowd  in  the  square  below. 

"I  have  made  you  come  here,"  he  proclaimed 
in  stentorian  tones,  "to  listen  to  a  little  nightingale 
of  these  parts.  It  will  sing  to  you  from  this  very 
window.    Listen  well,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  ac- 

35 


MY  LIFE 

claim  our  accomplished  compatriot,  Mademoiselle 
Emma  I" 

Standing  at  the  window,  my  eyes  raised  to  om* 
beautiful  mountains,  I  sang  with  all  my  strength, 
with  all  my  heart,  gay  songs  and  sad  songs — every- 
thing I  knew.  I  did  my  best,  wishing  to  show  all 
my  skill  to  these  men  and  women  who  had  known 
me  since  my  birth. 

Finally  I  stopped.  A  dead  silence  greeted  my 
efforts.  Astonished,  a  little  hurt,  I  went  down 
among  my  listeners,  addressing  myself  to  my  old 
friend  the  shepherd. 

"Blaise,"  I  said,  "what  is  the  matter  ?  Why  don't 
you  applaud  me?    Did  I  sing  as  badly  as  all  that?" 

The  old  man  was  hardly  able  to  hide  his  emo- 
tion. 

"Poor  child!  Poor  little  girl  I"  he  stammered, 
his  voice  breaking  with  tears.  "How  you  scream! 
How  it  must  hurt  you !  You  are  wearing  out  your 
life!  You  are  wearing  it  out!  Such  waste  of 
strength!    It's  dreadful." 

So  was  the  news  that  filled  my  mother  and  myself 
with  joy  and  pride  received  by  our  people!  Every 
one  was  heartbroken,  even  to  my  cousin,  the  Canon, 
who,  that  I  might  enter  into  paradise,  said  his  mass 

36 


DEBUTS  IN  BRUSSELS  AND  PARIS 

every  morning  for  twenty  years  for  the  salvation  of 
my  soul! 

In  spite  of  this  discouraging  attitude  at  home, 
I  continued  my  engagement  in  Brussels.  My  mas- 
ter, Puget,  in  order  to  give  me  confidence,  had 
assured  me  that  my  performance  was  perfect.  At 
that  age,  one  is  credulous!  I  soon  discovered  for 
myself,  however,  that  I  had  much  to  learn;  and 
when  the  next  vacation  began,  I  returned  to 
Paris  to  work.  I  had  to  find  a  new  teacher,  as  my 
dear  old  master  had  died  during  my  absence.  I 
went,  therefore,  to  Madame  Marchesi,  with  whom 
I  studied  for  about  six  months. 

While  I  was  her  pupil,  it  was  my  good  fortune 
to  hear  and  see  the  marvellous  Krauss  at  close 
range.  I  had  a  tremendous  admiration  for  this 
great  lyric  tragedian.  Her  voice  was  not  beautiful, 
and  she  had  occasionally  a  marked  tremolo.  Her 
appearance  ordinarily  was  unattractive,  even  ugly; 
but  when  she  sang,  she  was  transfigured.  She  be- 
came beautiful,  inspired!  She  was  able  to  thrill 
even  the  audiences  of  the  Opera,  that  public  of 
dilettaiiti  so  difficult  to  please  or  move!  I  heard 
her  in  Gounod's  "Sappho,"  in  the  "Tribut  de  Za- 

37 


MY  LIFE 

mora"  and  "Henri  VIII"  of  Saint-Saens,  in  fact  in 
all  her  famous  creations. 

On  the  first  night  of  the  "Tribut"  she  surpassed 
even  herself.  It  was  in  the  battle  scene  where,  as 
an  ardent  patriot,  desperately  wounded,  she  sang 
a  battle  hymn  to  the  soldiers  that  surrounded  her. 
Dragging  herself  on  her  knees  across  the  stage,  she 
reached  the  footlights.  In  a  final  effort  that  seemed 
to  lift  her  out  of  herself,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  sing- 
ing "Dehout,  enfants  de  Vlherie." 

I  and  my  companions  were  in  the  first  row  of 
the  orchestra.  It  was  like  a  sword-thrust — a  physi- 
cal blow.  We  cried  out  and  leaped  to  our  feet. 
The  whole  audience  rose,  electrified,  transported, 
surging  forward  in  answer  to  her  inspired  call. 

One  afternoon  at  about  this  same  period,  Krauss 
was  singing  at  the  home  of  Madame  Marchesi. 
Liszt  was  present.  He  sat  silent  and  unmoved 
amidst  the  enthusiastic  acclamations  of  the  rest  of 
us.  I  felt  that  he  did  not  appreciate  my  idol,  and 
was  almost  indignant  with  him  for  his  indifference. 
In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  Madame  Marchesi 
asked  him  if  he  would  accompany  Madame  Krauss, 
who  was  about  to  sing  the  "Erlkonig."    "I  do  not 

38 


DEBUTS  IN  BRUSSELS  AND  PARIS 

wish  to,"  he  answered  brutally.  "She  is  too  ugly, 
and  she  has  a  tremolo." 

His  hostess,  however,  quietly  insisted. 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  conceded  grudgingly.  "I 
warn  you  now,  though,  that  if  her  singing  does  not 
satisfy  me,  I  will  stop  in  the  middle  and  leave." 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  anxious,"  Madame  Mar- 
chesi  answered. 

Liszt  rose  and  crossed  the  room,  with  obvious  re- 
luctance. I  can  see  him  now,  as  he  sat  down  at  the 
piano.  His  lion's  mane  thrown  back,  his  talons 
crashing  down  on  the  sonorous  keyboard,  he  at- 
tacked Schubert's  admirable  prelude.  He,  alone, 
with  his  incredible  force,  was  as  mighty  as  a  whole 
orchestra. 

Madame  Krauss,  who  had  heard  the  uncompli- 
mentary remarks  of  the  great  man,  rose  to  her  feet. 
Pale  but  resolute,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  master's 
face,  she  began  to  sing.  Almost  immediately  he 
raised  his  head,  attentive,  surprised.  His  eyes  met 
those  of  the  tragedian,  and  could  not  leave  her  face. 

In  a  poignant  communion,  intense,  transcendent, 
their  spirits  met  and  mingled.  They  swept  us  with 
them,  in  their  tragic  ecstasy.  It  was  tremendous, 
indescribable!     Little  by  little,  Liszt  had  risen  to 

39 


MY  LIFE 

his  feet.  As  the  last  notes  died  away,  he  held  out 
his  arms  to  the  inspired  singer. 

"Forgive  me,  my  sister,  my  child!"  he  exclaimed, 
in  a  voice  broken  with  emotion. 

Krauss,  completely  exhausted  by  her  prodigious 
eflPort,  could  only  murmur  "Thank  you,"  as  she 
sank  into  her  chair. 

More  than  twenty  years  later,  all  the  leading 
musicians  of  the  day  were  asked  in  a  newspaper  in- 
terview to  describe  the  moment  in  their  lives  when 
music  had  most  deeply  moved  them.  Without  ex- 
ception, all  those  who  had  been  present  on  that 
unforgettable  occasion  answered:  "The  day,  at 
Madame  Marchesi's,  when  Liszt  accompanied 
Madame  Krauss  in  the  'Erlkonig.'  " 

I  myself  was  so  profoundly  impressed  that  never 
since  then  have  I  dared  to  sing  that  admirable 
ballad,  feeling  myself  incapable  of  reaching  such 
tremendous  heights. 

Not  long  after  this,  while  I  was  still  a  pupil  of 
Madame  Marchesi,  I  was  engaged  by  Victor 
Maurel  to  create  the  leading  role  in  Theodore  Du- 
bois' opera,  "Aben-Hamet"  at  the  Theatre  des 
Italiens.  The  celebrated  barjrtone  sang  Aben- 
Hamet  in  this  production.    This  role  was  one  of  his 

40 


DEBUTS  IN  BRUSSELS  AND  PABIS 

most  remarkable  creations.  He  gave  me  inval- 
uable advice  and  assistance  in  developing  my  own 
part.  I  have  always  been  deeply  grateful  to  him 
for  the  lessons  in  lyric  declamation  which  I  re- 
ceived from  him,  and  which  have  greatly  influenced 
my  artistic  career. 

After  I  had  sung  for  a  few  months  at  the  Thea- 
tre des  Italiens,  Carvalho,  director  of  the  Opera 
Comique,  engaged  me  for  the  principal  role  in  de 
Jonciere's  "Chevalier  Jean"  in  which  I  had  a  con- 
siderable success,  due  to  my  youth,  my  voice,  and 
the  striking  picture  I  made  in  the  gorgeous  cos- 
tumes, unusual  in  those  days,  which  were  provided 
for  the  part. 

I  sang  Cherubin  in  Mozart's  "Noces  de  Figaro" 
with  Madame  Carvalho,  wife  of  the  director.  She 
was  at  the  end  of  her  long  and  successful  career, 
but  she  consented  to  sing  for  us  in  order  to  teach 
us  her  exquisite  art.  I  knew  her  well  and  loved 
her  greatly.  It  was  she  who  created  the  leading 
roles  in  Gounod's  finest  operas.  An  accomplished 
singer,  possessing  an  admirable  diction,  she  personi- 
fied French  lyric  art  in  all  its  refinement,  its  re- 
straint and  charm.  She  was  the  idol  of  her  genera- 
tion. 

41 


MY  LIFE 

I  remained  two  years  at  the  Opera  Comique; 
but  in  spite  of  my  voice  and  my  dramatic  ability, 
my  success  was  not  striking.  I  felt  that  I  could 
learn  much  by  a  change  of  environment,  and  I 
longed  for  Italy,  feeling  that  there,  in  contact  with 
a  new  world  of  art,  and  under  warmer  skies,  I 
could  best  develop  and  expand. 

My  desire  was  achieved  when  I  obtained  an  en- 
gagement at  the  Scala  of  Milan.  There  I  was 
asked  to  create  the  leading  role  in  the  opera  "Flora 
Mirabilio"  by  Samara. 


I 


CHAPTER  IV 

SUFFERING  AND  SICKNESS 
WENT  to  Milan  with  all  the  faults  and  all 


the  advantages  of  my  youth.  My  seasons 
at  the  Opera  Comique  had  taught  me  nothing.  I 
seemed  only  to  have  acquired  a  new  timidity  which 
paralysed  my  faculties  at  the  most  crucial  moment. 
In  spite  of  the  burning  fires  within  me,  I  gave  the 
effect  of  being  cold,  for  I  was  unable  to  communi- 
cate with  my  audience,  or  in  any  way  to  express 
my  emotions. 

The  night  of  my  debut  at  the  Scala,  I  was  hor- 
ribly frightened.  I  sang  out  of  tune  and  lost  my 
head  completely.  The  audience  hissed  me,  and 
quite  rightly!  How  often,  since  then,  have  I  blessed 
that  fortunate  hissing  which  made  me  realise  my 
shortcomings  and  spurred  me  to  undertake  the 
serious  studies  which  I  so  much  needed! 

I  returned  to  Paris  in  a  state  of  despair,  ready  to 
make  corsets  rather  than  continue  my  career. 
I  was  rescued  from  this  fate  by  M.  Hugel,  the 

43 


MY  LIFE 

well-known  publisher,  who  took  me  to  Madame 
Rosina  Laborde.  This  remarkable  singing  mis- 
tress is  so  widely  known  that  I  need  not  enlarge 
upon  her  extraordinary  gifts  as  a  teacher.  Her 
conscientiousness  and  her  patience  were  beyond 
praise,  and  it  was  from  her  that  I  learned  the  fun- 
damentals of  my  art. 

During  the  period  that  followed  my  disastrous 
appearance  at  Milan,  I  changed  very  greatly.  Not 
only  did  my  voice  improve  through  the  wise  and 
experienced  teaching  of  Madame  Laborde,  but  my 
character  and  personality  developed  and  crystal- 
lised. I  am  reminded  in  this  connection  of  a  remark 
made  by  Madame  Malibran  about  La  Sontag,  at 
a  time  when  the  two  famous  opera  singers  were 
appearing  at  the  same  theatre.  Each  one  had  her 
ardent  followers  and  partisans,  and  one  day  an 
admirer  of  Malibran,  trying  to  be  ingratiating  and 
pleasant,  began  to  speak  disparagingly  of  La  Son- 
tag,  saying  that  she  had  neither  feeling  nor  artistic 
temperament. 

"Wait  until  she  has  lived  and  suflPered,"  an- 
swered INIalibran.  "You  will  be  astonished  at  the 
transformation  which  will  take  place  in  her  per- 
sonality; you  wiU  see  its  effect  on  her  art." 


CJ 


ik.**"^' 


SUFFERINGS  AND  SICKNESS 

It  so  happened  that  not  long  after  this  conver- 
sation La  Sontag  experienced  a  deep  misfortune. 
Returning  later  to  the  very  theatre  where  she  had 
been  criticised  for  her  lack  of  feeling,  she  achieved 
a  triumphant  success.  The  beautiful  statue  had  ^ 
come  to  life.     La  Malibran  had  foretold  truly. 

My  own  experience  was  very  much  the  same. 
During  the  first  years  of  my  career,  I  was,  as  I 
have  said  before,  unable  to  express  what  I  felt. 
I  often  heard  the  same  criticism  made  of  me  as 
had  been  made  of  La  Sontag  in  her  early  days. 

At  the  very  moment  that  I  started  my  work  with 
Madame  Laborde,  I  suffered  a  great  sorrow,  the 
first  tragedy  that  had  touched  my  young  life.  Of 
that  I  still  cannot  speak.  It  is  enough  that  the 
shock  was  so  violent  that  I  fell  seriously  ill.  For  a 
whole  year,  my  condition  was  almost  desperate,  but 
my  youth  and  natural  vitality  struggled  against 
the  forces  of  sickness  and  despair,  and  finally  tri-  ■ 
umphed. 

The  process  was  slow,  and  my  convalescence 
long.  During  the  interminable  montlis  of  recov- 
ery, I  read  a  great  deal  and  meditated  on  many 
things  which  until  that  time  had  not  held  my  atten- 
tion.    In  the  crucible  of  pain  and  suffering,  my 

45 


\ 


MY  LIFE 

spirit  seemed  to  have  developed  a  new  sensitive- 
ness, a  new  power  of  sympathy,  a  wider  under- 
standing of  life  and  art. 

When,  later,  I  returned  to  the  stage,  I  found 
that  I  knew  at  last  how  to  communicate  with  my 
audience,  how  to  reach  the  public  and  make  it  feel 
my  joy  or  sorrow,  my  happiness  or  pain. 


CHAPTER  V 

FINAL  PREPARATION 

"|\y^Y  health  restored,  I  took  up  my  work  with 
-^  -■■  Madame  Laborde,  preparatory  to  continu- 
ing my  career.  I  was  now  more  ready  than  ever 
to  understand  and  appreciate  what  my  teacher  had 
to  give  me,  and  my  progress  was  remarkably  rapid. 

Madame  Laborde  had  had  a  long  and  successful 
operatic  career.  A  pupil  of  Piermarini  and  a  friend 
of  Cherubini,  she  had  appeared  for  many  years  in 
Italy.  At  one  time,  she  had  sung  with  Patti  and 
Alboni,  and  had  made  several  extended  tours  with 
that  great  contralto.  Her  debut,  however,  had 
taken  place  in  Paris,  not  in  Italy.  She  appeared 
for  the  first  time  at  the  Theatre  des  Italiens  in  1840. 
She  was  then  only  sixteen  years  old,  but  to  her 
dying  day  she  never  forgot  that  terrifying  occasion, 
and  used  often  to  tell  us  about  it.  Just  as  she  was 
about  to  make  her  entrance  on  the  stage,  her  sing- 
ing master  said  to  her: 

"If  you  are  unlucky  enough  not  to  sing  well,  I 

47 


MY  LIFE 

will  never  come  near  you  again!  I  will  be  in  the 
front  row  of  the  orchestra,  listening  to  you." 

The  poor  child  was  so  petrified  with  fear  that 
her  voice  broke  in  her  first  phrase.  Courageously, 
like  a  good  little  girl,  she  began  over  again;  and, 
in  order  to  show  that  she  really  knew  how,  she 
proceeded  to  improvise  eight  or  ten  cadenzas,  one 
after  the  other.  The  public,  enchanted  by  her 
sweet  ingenuousness,  went  wild  with  joy.  Her 
success  was  complete.  Even  her  master  was  dis- 
armed ! 

She  was  a  member  of  the  Paris  Opera  for  many 
years.  Then,  after  her  Italian  tour,  she  returned 
to  Paris  and  founded  her  school  of  singing.  She 
had  a  truly  phenomenal  patience  with  her  pupils. 
I  remember  on  one  occasion  she  made  me  repeat  a 
phrase  from  the  mad  scene  of  Ophelia  eighty 
separate  times.  I  was  ready  to  cry  with  nervous- 
ness and  exhaustion,  when  she  finally  allowed  me 
to  rest. 

*'That  will  do  very  nicely,"  she  remarked  tran- 
quilly, at  the  end  of  the  ordeal.  "You  are  worthy 
of  being  my  pupil,  for  you  are  beginning  to  learn 
patience!" 

I  truly  believe  that  I  will  be  able  to  sing  that 

48 


FINAL  PREPARATION 

phrase  on  my  deathbed,  so  deeply  is  it  imbedded  in 
my  larynx. 

Madame  Laborde  had  an  impeccable  style  and 
perfect  diction.  She  allowed  no  compromise,  for- 
bidding all  portamento  and  bad  attacks.  She  called 
me  her  best,  her  most  grateful,  pupil,  and  I  had 
in  turn  a  very  deep  affection  for  her,  full  of  re- 
spect and  admiration.  No  cloud  ever  came  between 
us  or  dimmed  the  glow  of  our  long  and  perfect 
friendship. 

During  the  years  that  I  knew  her,  she  told  me 
countless  delightful  stories.  It  seemed  to  me  that, 
through  her,  I  came  to  know  all  the  artists  of  her 
period.  She  had  known  Madame  Malibran,  La 
Pasta,  La  Sontag,  La  Frezzolini,  Grizi,  Mario, 
Tamburini,  Lablache.  She  would  describe  to  us 
their  way  of  singing,  their  gestures  and  stage  craft, 
all  the  traditions  of  the  fine  old  Italian  school.  She 
had  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  anecdotes  and  a  ready 
wit.  Her  gift  of  description  was  remarkable.  Her 
stories  usually  began,  "It  was  in  the  year  1840." 

She  has  known  the  mother  of  Patti,  apparently  a 
most  disagreeable  woman.  One  evening  this  fiery 
lady  was  singing  with  a  companion  who  had  false 
eyebrows.    At  that  time  it  was  the  custom  to  shave 

49 


MY  LIFE 

the  natural  brows  and  glue  on  false  ones  at  a  more 
dramatic  angle.  Patti's  mother,  jealous  and  furi- 
ous at  the  success  of  her  comrade,  began  to  stare 
at  her  fixedly. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  the  other  whispered  under 
her  breath. 

"Your  right  eyebrow  has  fallen  off!"  came  the 
answer,  sotto  voce. 

The  poor  victim,  horrified,  tore  off  her  left  eye- 
brow, and  remained  for  the  rest  of  the  act  with  only 
her  right  one  in  place ! 

On  another  occasion  this  high-tempered  singer, 
whose  besetting  sin  seems  to  have  been  jealousy, 
became  annoyed  at  the  applause  given  Lablache, 
with  whom  she  was  singing.  She  seized  one  of  the 
wreaths  destined  for  him,  and,  planting  it  on  her 
own  head,  approached  the  footlights. 

"I  have  well  deserved  it  myself!"  she  exclaimed, 
to  the  astonished  audience. 

Apropos  of  Lablache.  I  recall  a  most  diverting 
incident.  He  was  staying  at  one  time  in  the  same 
hotel  in  which  General  Tom  Thumb,  the  dwarf, 
had  an  apartment.  Tom  Thumb  was  very  pop- 
ular and  had  many  visitors.  One  day  a  lady,  seek- 
ing the  General,  entered  Lablache's  apartment  by 

50 


FINAL  PREPARATION 

mistake.  She  found  herself  face  to  face  with  the 
enormous  singer,  who,  beside  being  very  tall,  was 
corpulent  as  well. 

"I  was  calling  on  General  Tom  Thumb!"  the 
astonished  visitor  stammered. 

"I  am  he,"  answered  the  giant  gravely. 

The  lady,  thoroughly  bewildered,  protested  in 
surprise.  "But,  IVIonsieur,  I  was  told  that  Tom 
Thumb  was  the  smallest  man  in  the  world!" 

"Ah,  yes,"  Lablache  answered.  "That  is  true, 
in  public.  But  when  I  am  at  home,  I  make  myself 
comfortable  I" 

Madame  Laborde  said  to  me  one  day,  "My  dear 
child,  take  careful  note  of  the  way  in  which  I  teach, 
for  you  are  one  of  the  valiant  spirits,  and  when  you 
are  old  you  will  be  giving  lessons  in  your  turn." 

"Oh,  no!  Never  1"  I  exclaimed.  "Never  in  the 
world!    I  have  not  enough  patience!" 

Yet  fate  willed  that  I  should  go  back  to  the  very 
same  apartment  where  ISIadame  Laborde  gave  les- 
sons for  more  than  forty  years,  and  where  I  myself 
had  studied  so  long! 

It  happened  just  after  the  war,  during  the  time 
of  great  shortage  of  apartments  in  Paris.  I  had 
searched  long  and  vainly  for  a  place  in  which  to 

51 


MY  LIFE 

live.  One  night  I  dreamed  vividly  of  Madame  La- 
borde.  She  came  to  my  bedside,  saying  to  me  with 
her  sweet  smile,  just  as  she  used  to  when  she  was 
encouraging  me  to  work: 

"Patience,  courage!  You  will  come  to  me 
again!" 

The  next  morning,  impulsive  as  always,  I  rushed 
to  the  house  where  Madame  Laborde  had  lived.  I 
asked  the  concierge  whether  there  was  an  apart- 
ment for  rent.  She  assured  me  that  there  was  noth- 
ing vacant,  but  at  the  same  time  told  me  that 
Madame  Laborde's  niece  was  in  Paris  and  could 
tell  me  the  exact  situation.  I  went  to  her  imme- 
diately. 

"Lily,"  I  said,  "you  must  rent  me  your  apart- 
ment! You  are  here  so  seldom,  you  really  don't 
need  it.    You  are  always  in  the  country." 

"No,  Calve,"  she  answered  discouragingly.  "I 
have  told  you  twenty  times  that  I  will  not  rent  it. 
When  I  do  come  to  Paris,  even  though  it  is  not 
often,  I  like  to  return  to  my  dear  godmother's 
rooms.  I  am  so  happy  to  be  once  more  among  her 
things." 

I  told  her  my  dream,  hoping  to  soften  her  heart, 
but  she  interrupted  me,  saying  that  we  must  go  to 

52 


FINAL  PREPARATION 

see  her  husband,  who  was  ill  at  the  moment.  As 
soon  as  we  came  into  the  sick  room,  the  patient 
greeted  me  with  these  words: 

"My  dear  Calve,  I  have  just  had  the  most  ex- 
traordinary dream!  Not  about  you — about  our 
godmother.  She  came  to  my  bedside  and  said, 
'Calve  must  come  to  our  house!  She  must  come 
right  away!'  " 

"When  did  you  have  this  dream?"  I  asked. 

"About  thi-ee  o'clock  in  the  morning,"  he  an- 
swered. 

On  the  same  night,  at  the  same  hour,  we  had  had 
the  same  dream !  We  were  all  very  much  touched, 
and  we  talked  long  of  our  dear  dead  friend,  recall- 
ing incidents  and  stories,  evoking  the  memory  of  the 
charming  woman  who  had  been  like  a  mother  to 
us  all.  In  the  end,  they  let  nie  have  the  coveted 
apartment,  where  I  lived  and  taught  in  the  setting 
that  so  vividly  recalled  my  youth,  my  studies  and 
my  aspirations. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  TOUR  IN  ITALY 

T  STUDIED  for  a  year  with  Madame  Laborde, 
^  and  made  such  effective  progress  that  I  was  im- 
mediately reengaged  in  Italy.  I  appeared  at  the 
San  Carlos  of  Naples,  where  I  sang  Ophelia  with 
Victor  Maurel  as  Hamlet,  and  where  I  appeared 
in  Bizet's  "Pecheurs  de  Perles"  with  the  tenor 
Lucia,  a  gifted  singer,  with  whom  I  was  later  to 
create  Mascagni's  "Amico  Fritz." 

I  sang  for  two  consecutive  years  in  Naples,  before 
the  most  amusing  public  it  has  ever  been  my  privi- 
lege to  encounter.  A  group  of  dilettanti,  gentlemen 
of  taste  and  leisure,  assisted  regularly  at  every  per- 
formance, criticising  the  actors  and  actresses,  prais- 
ing and  blaming  in  loud  tones,  punctuating  the  per- 
formance with  exclamations  and  ejaculations,  to 
the  vast  amusement  of  the  rest  of  the  audience. 
One  day,  at  the  house  of  some  friends,  my  atten- 
tion was  arrested  by  the  appearance  of  one  of  the 
guests. 

55 


MY  LIFE 

"Tell  me,"  I  said  to  a  Neapolitan  acquaintance, 
"who  is  that  distinguished  old  man?  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  seen  him  before.  What  is  his  pro- 
fession?   What  does  he  do?" 

"He  is  a  subscriber  to  the  San  Carlo!"  answered 
my  informer,  with  perfect  seriousness,  as  though 
this  description  explained  everyihing.  "He  is,  in 
fact,  the  senior  member  of  the  fraternity.  Allow 
me  to  present  him." 

The  old  gentleman  proved  a  most  entertaining 
friend.  He  described  to  me  the  fatiguing  duties 
of  an  ahonnato,  as  a  subscriber  is  called  in  Italian. 

An  ahonnato  had  to  be  at  the  theatre  early  in  the 
morning  to  watch  the  rehearsal  of  the  ballet  dan- 
cers. At  half-past  one,  he  returned  to  give  his 
opinion  on  the  performance  of  the  orchestra.  Later 
in  the  afternoon,  he  gave  his  entire  attention  to  the 
rehearsals  of  the  singers.  The  evening,  of  course, 
was  devoted  to  the  regular  performance.  A  full 
day's  work! 

My  friend  must  have  been  ninety  years  old,  but 
he  was  still  pursuing  his  arduous  profession.  He 
had  known  all  the  singers  of  what  he  described  as 
"the  great  era."  He  had  even  known  La  Malibran 
when  she  was  hardly  more  than  a  cliild.    Her  father, 

5Q 


^      A  TOUR  IN  ITALY 

Garcia,  was  a  terror !  He  taught  his  daughters  to 
sing  with  the  help  of  a  cudgel,  beating  them  when 
they  did  not  do  exactly  as  he  commanded.  One 
night  La  Malibran  was  singing  Desdemona  to  his 
Othello.  As  they  made  their  entrance  together, 
he  turned  to  his  daughter. 

"Do  not  forget  what  I  told  you  to  do  in  the  last 
act !"  he  whispered  in  a  threatening  undertone.  "If 
you  dare  make  a  mistake,  you  will  catch  it  from 
me." 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  the  little  Desdemona 
became  more  and  more  nervous.  She  blundered 
several  times,  and  her  father's  anger  rose.  By  the 
time  they  reached  the  scene  in  which  Othello  stran- 
gles Desdemona,  Garcia  was  in  a  fury.  He  glared 
at  the  poor  child  ferociously,  his  face  contorted 
with  rage.  Suddenly  she  became  panic-stricken, 
and,  running  from  him,  threw  herself  into  the  or- 
chestra pit. 

"Help!  Murder!"  she  screamed.  "He's  after 
me!    He's  going  to  kill  me  in  real  earnest!" 

The  first  violinist  caught  her  in  his  arms  and, 
we  suppose,  reassured  her  successfully.  At  any 
rate,  it  happened  that  a  few  years  later  she  became 

57 


MY  LIFE 

the  wife  of  this  musician,  whose  name  was  de 
Beriot. 

La  Frezzolini,  a  dramatic  personality  of  the  old 
days,  was  another  star  in  my  ahonnato's  firmament. 
At  one  period  of  her  career,  she  had  contracted  for 
a  tour  in  South  America.  The  day  of  her  debut 
in  Buenos  Aires,  she  was  told  that  her  lover,  who 
had  remained  in  Italy,  was  unfaithful  to  her.  Mad 
with  jealousy,  she  determined  at  all  costs  to  reach 
him.  She  purloined  her  maid's  cloak  and  passport, 
and  made  her  escape  from  the  hotel.  A  ship  was 
lying  in  the  harbour,  anchor  weighed,  ready  to  sail 
for  Europe.  She  managed  to  get  on  board  un- 
noticed. 

Several  hours  later,  when  the  curtain  should  have 
been  rising  on  her  first  appearance  in  the  Argen- 
tine capital,  she  was  well  out  at  sea.  This  pretty 
piece  of  folly  cost  her  three  million  francs!  C'est 
beau,  Ictpassion!  I  can  imagine  the  eloquent  de- 
spair of  her  manager,  I  can  see  the  expression  of 
his  face,  when  he  discovered  the  flight  of  his  song 
bird! 

In  spite  of  my  cordial  reception  at  Naples  and 
elsewhere  in  Italy,  I  was  not  yet  satisfied.  My 
heart  was  set  on  returning  to  Milan.    I  longed  to 

58 


A  TOUR  IN  ITALY 

wipe  out  the  memory  of  my  failure  there — ^but  that 
terrible  public!  I  dreaded  to  appear  again  before 
it!  I  was  finally  persuaded  to  make  the  attempt, 
and  it  was  arranged  for  me  to  sing  Ophelia  with 
the  celebrated  Italian  barytone,  Battistini. 

The  audience  received  me  coldly  during  the  first 
acts.    I  was  in  despair. 

"If  I  do  not  succeed,"  I  said  to  my  mother,  as 
I  dressed  for  the  mad  scene,  "I  will  throw  myself 
out  of  the  window!" 

I  went  on  the  stage  in  a  desperate  mood,  too 
frantic  to  care  how  I  looked,  pale  with  grief  and 
rage.  I  had  no  make-up  on,  my  dress  was  in  dis- 
order, I  must  have  seemed  indeed  half  mad ! 

The  audience  thought  it  was  a  studied  effect,  and 
I  felt  a  current  of  interest  and  sympathy  sweep 
through  the  theatre.  I  began  singing  with  a  com- 
plete abandon,  a  tragic  fervor.  The  first  phrase 
was  greeted  enthusiastically!  Determined  to  win 
a  complete  triumph,  I  attacked  a  cadenza  which  I 
had  never  before  attempted  in  public.  It  was  an 
extremely  difficult  piece  of  vocalisation,  going  from 
low  A  to  F  above  high  C.  Once  up  on  that  dizzy 
pinnacle,  I  was  like  a  child  on  a  ladder,  afraid  to 
move  or  come  down! 

59 


MY  LIFE 

The  conductor  was  terrified.  I  held  the  note  as 
long  as  I  could;  but  when  my  breath  gave  out,  I 
had  to  descend  the  chromatic  scale.  I  did  it  with 
such  brio,  such  perfection,  that  the  audience  burst 
into  a  thunder  of  applause.  Seldom  have  I  had 
such  an  ovation!  I  can  truly  say  that  it  was  the 
greatest  moment  in  my  operatic  career.  What  in- 
tense, what  triumphant  joy  filled  my  young  heart 
that  night ! 

I  cannot  continue  the  narrative  of  my  years  in 
Italy  without  speaking  of  an  artist  whose  influence 
upon  my  career  has  been  incalculable — La  Dusel 
All  my  life,  I  have  loved  and  admired  her  deeply. 
I  cannot  see  her  upon  the  stage  without  being  pro- 
foundly moved.  Hers  was  the  spark  that  set  my 
fires  alight.  Her  art,  simple,  human,  passionately 
sincere,  was  a  revelation  to  me.  It  broke  down  the 
false  and  conventional  standards  of  lyric  expres- 
tion  to  which  I  had  become  accustomed.  She  taught 
me  to  appreciate  sincerity  in  art,  a  sincerity  which 
in  her  case  went  to  the  length  of  being  unwilling  to 
make  up  for  the  stage. 

She  was  severely  criticised  for  this  when  she  first 
appeared  in  Paris.  She  returned  another  year,  with 
the  usual  type  of  costume  and  make-up,  proving 

60 


JL 

HI' 

f  ">'%AO-;         ' 

L 

^*- 

i 

Eleoxora  Duse 


A  TOUR  IN  ITALY 

that  she  could  shine  in  the  school  that  believed  in 
the  embellishment  of  nature,  as  well  as  in  her  own 
realistic  manner.  I  shall  never  forget  her  beauty 
that  year!  All  Paris  flocked  to  see  her,  and  every 
one  was  forced  to  bow  before  her  genius. 

I  followed  her  on  her  tours  through  Italy  one 
summer,  going  from  town  to  town  where  she  was 
playing,  attending  each  performance,  and  some- 
times watching  for  her  at  the  stage  door  or  in  the 
lobby  of  her  hotel.  I  never  wished  to  approach  my 
divinity.  I  wanted  her  to  remain  exalted,  remote, 
inaccessible. 

Years  later,  however,  when  we  were  both  touring 
in  America,  I  learned  to  know  her  well,  and  to  ap- 
preciate deeply  her  great  qualities  of  mind  and 
heart. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  HOLY  CITY 

T  N  1891  I  was  chosen  by  Mascagni  to  create  the 
-■■  charming  role  of  Susel  in  his  opera,  "L'Amico 
Fritz."  It  was  produced  at  the  Costanzi  Theatre 
in  Rome  with  Lucia  and  Lherie  in  the  tenor  and 
barytone  parts.  Lucia  I  have  already  mentioned 
in  connection  with  my  debut  in  Naples.  Lherie, 
an  artist  of  distinction,  had  been  a  tenor  in  his 
youth.  He  had  created  the  role  of  Don  Jose  in 
"Carmen."  He  was  very  popular  in  both  France 
and  Italy,  and  I  have  often  sung  in  "Hamlet"  with 
him.  He  excelled  in  the  title  role  of  this  opera, 
which  he  interpreted  in  a  truly  Shakespearean 
spirit.  We  had,  all  three,  marked  successes  in  Mas- 
cagni's  delightful  production,  which  is  indeed  a 
small  masterpiece. 

During  my  sojourn  in  the  Holy  City,  I  often 
went  to  hear  the  choir  of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  which 
was  at  that  time  under  the  direction  of  the  last  of 
the  eunuchs,  Mustapha,  a  Turk,  hke  all  his  com- 

()3 


MY  LIFE 

panions.  He  had  an  exquisite  high  tenor  voice, 
truly  angeUe,  neither  masculine  nor  yet  feminine 
in  type — deep,  subtle,  poignant  in  its  vibrant  in- 
tensity. He  sang  the  classic  church  music  admir- 
ably, especially  Palestrina.  He  had  certain  curious 
notes  which  he  called  his  fourth  voice — strange,  sex- 
less tones,  superhuman,  uncanny! 

I  was  so  much  impressed  by  his  talent  that  I  de- 
cided to  take  some  lessons  from  him.  The  first 
question  I  asked  was  how  I  might  learn  to  sing  those 
heavenly  tones. 

"It's  quite  easy,"  he  answered.  "You  have  only 
to  practice  with  your  mouth  tight  shut  for  two  hours 
a  day.  At  the  end  of  ten  years,  you  may  possibly 
be  able  to  do  something  with  them." 

That  was  hardly  encouraging! 

"A  thousand  thanks!"  I  exclaimed.  "At  that 
rate,  I  will  never  learn!  It  takes  too  much  pa- 
tience!" 

Nevertheless,  with  the  tenacity  which  is  a  funda- 
mental part  of  my  character,  I  set  to  work.  My 
first  efforts  were  pitiful.  My  mother  assured  me 
that  they  sounded  hke  the  miauling  of  a  sick  cat! 
At  the  end  of  two  years,  however,  I  began  to  make 
use  of  my  newly  acquired  skiU;  but  it  was  not  until 

64 


THE  HOLY  CITY 

the  third  year  of  study  that  I  obtained  a  complete 
mastery  of  the  difficult  art. 

These  special  notes,  which  I  have  used  since 
then  with  great  success,  are  rarely  found  in  the  ordi- 
nary run  of  voices.  I  have  tried  repeatedly  to  de- 
velop them  in  my  pupils ;  but,  in  spite  of  hard  work 
and  close  application,  I  have  never  found  one  pupil 
who  has  been  able  to  imitate  them. 

While  I  was  studying  in  Rome,  I  overheard  one 
of  my  comrades  remark  that,  after  all,  this  "fourth 
voice"  was  nothing  but  a  trick.  Much  vexed,  I 
told  Mustapha  what  had  been  said. 

"Let  them  howl  I"  he  answered.  "Our  friends 
call  our  achievement  trickery  when  they  cannot  do 
the  same  thing  themselves.  As  soon  as  they  have 
learned  the  art,  they  call  it  talent!" 

I  have  always  been  an  eager  student,  anxious  to 
acquire  new  skill,  ready  to  try  any  method  that 
might  increase  the  effectiveness  of  my  interpreta- 
tions. When  I  was  young,  I  would  have  walked 
through  fire,  had  I  been  told  that  I  would  sing  or 
act  better  in  consequence.  Fortunately  for  me, 
fire  was  never  thought  of  as  a  method  of  perfec- 
tion, but  water  was  suggested. 

I  was  at  tlie  studio  of  Denys  Peuch,  a  sculptor 

65 


MY  LIFE 

from  my  own  country  of  Aveyron.  He  explained 
that,  in  order  to  obtain  graceful  lines,  he  soaked 
his  models'  clothes  in  water  before  arranging  their 
draperies.    The  idea  struck  me  as  admirable. 

The  next  time  I  sang  Ophelia,  I  wrung  my 
dress  out  in  a  basin  of  water  before  putting  it  on 
for  the  mad  scene.  The  effect  was  all  that  could 
be  desired  until  the  middle  of  the  act.  It  is  then 
that  the  pale  Ophelia,  surrounded  by  a  group  of 
lovely  maidens,  sinks  to  the  ground  beside  the  lake. 
As  I  lay  on  the  mossy  bank,  playing  with  my  flow- 
ers, I  noticed  that  the  little  ballet  dancers  were 
staring  at  me,  round-eyed. 

"Look  at  Calve!"  I  heard  one  of  them  whisper. 
"What's  the  matter  with  her?  She's  on  fire!  See 
the  smoke!" 

What  an  unexpected  disaster!  My  lovely  Gre- 
cian effect  was  drying  off  in  a  cloud  of  steam! 
We  were  all  convulsed  with  laughter.  The  farce 
ended  in  a  bad  cold,  and  I  never  tried  this  partic- 
ular method  again. 

During  one  of  my  later  visits  to  Rome  I  carried 
into  effect  an  idea  that  had  long  haunted  my  imag- 
ination. I  wished  to  have  a  monument  designed  for 
my  tomb,  and  I  asked  Denys  Peuch  to  carry  out 

66 


Frcm  a  Statue  by  Dcnys  Pcuch 

Cai.vk  as  Ophklia 


THE  HOLY  CITY 

my  idea.  This  great  sculptor  was  not  only  my 
friend  and  compatriot,  but  a  very  talented  artist  as 
well.  I  reproduce  here  a  photograph  of  the  statue 
he  made  of  me  in  the  role  of  Ophelia,  which  some 
day  will  be  used  for  its  destined  purpose. 

M.  Peuch  is  now  director  of  the  Academy  of 
France  in  Rome,  and  we  of  Aveyron  are  very  proud 
of  our  distinguished  countryman.  Our  little  de- 
partment can  claim  many  famous  men  among  its 
citizens,  not  the  least  of  whom  is  Henri  Fabre, 
who  lived  near  my  own  home,  and  whose  marvel- 
lous researches  in  the  insect  world  have  brought  him 
world-wide  honour. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  VENETIAN  TRIUMPH 

CONTINUING  my  tour  through  Italy,  I 
went  to  Venice  where  I  sang  at  the  Theatre 
de  Fenice,  a  charming  eighteenth-century  hall,  dec- 
orated with  a  Louis  XV  fan,  the  loges  panelled  in 
verni  Marin.  I  gave  over  twenty  performances 
of  Ophelia,  with  tremendous  success,  for  I  was 
the  spoiled  darling  of  the  public. 

One  afternoon  I  went  to  the  theatre  rather  ear- 
lier than  usual.  As  I  entered,  I  saw  a  group  of 
porters  and  mechanics  hovering  around  a  little 
sedan  chair  which  stood  in  the  wings  and  which  I 
had  noticed  before.  It  had  been  built  for  Patti  on 
her  last  stay  in  Venice.  She  feared  the  dampness 
of  the  canals  and  insisted  on  being  carried  to  and 
from  her  hotel  in  this  specially  constructed  portan- 
tina. 

As  I  made  my  way  toward  my  dressing  room,  the 
stage  manager,  who  had  been  in  animated  conver- 
sation with  the  group  around  the  sedan  chair,  ap- 
proached me. 

69 


MY  LIFE 

"Will  Mademoiselle  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  how 
much  she  weighs?"  he  asked. 

"A  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds,"  I  an- 
swered, much  surprised  by  the  question. 

"Splendid!"  he  exclaimed.  "Just  the  thing! 
Mademoiselle,  if  she  wishes,  can  use  Patti's  sedan 
chair.  The  porters  will  not  carry  more  than  a  cer- 
tain weight,  but  Mademoiselle  is  exactly  right." 

I  was  of  course  delighted.  Every  evening  I 
made  the  journey  through  the  narrow  alleys  of  old 
Venice,  and,  as  my  portantina  was  unique,  I  was 
known  all  along  the  route.  The  street  urchins  be- 
gan cheering  as  soon  as  they  saw  it  appear  at  the 
end  of  a  street. 

"Ecco  la  prima  donna!"  they  shouted.  "Here 
she  comes!    E  viva!    E  viva!" 

My  farewell  performances  at  the  Fenice  was  a 
gala  night.  The  stage  was  inundated  with  flowers, 
the  audience  wildly  enthusiastic.  Finally,  it  was 
time  to  go  home,  and  my  mother  sent  my  maid  to 
call  the  porters. 

This  maid,  Valerie,  was  a  Parisian,  dark,  grace- 
ful, and  not  unlike  me  in  build  and  colouring.  She 
loved  to  imitate  my  way  of  walking,  my  gestures, 
sometimes  even  my  clothes.     She  wore  a  mantilla, 

70 


A  VENETIAN  TRIUMPH 

and  at  a  distance  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  her 
mistress. 

My  mother  and  I  sat  waiting  in  my  dressing 
room  for  a  long  time.  Valerie  seemed  to  be  unac- 
countably slow.  We  were  beginning  to  wonder 
what  had  happened  to  her,  when  she  burst  into 
the  room. 

"Oh,  mademoiselle !  Forgive  me !"  she  exclaimed, 
all  out  of  breath.  "I  didn't  do  it  on  purpose !  They 
carried  me  off  in  the  portantina!  There  were 
serenaders — gentlemen  in  evening  clothes!  It  was 
grand.  A  regular  triumph!  They  thought  it  was 
mademoiselle!" 

She  stopped  for  breath;  but  before  we  could  ask 
a  single  question,  she  was  off  again. 

"When  we  got  to  the  hotel,"  she  continued  ex- 
citedly, "the  manager  opened  the  door  with  a  deep 
bow.  When  he  saw  me,  how  he  jumped!  'It's 
nothing  but  the  maid!'  he  shouted  in  a  rage.  But 
really  it  isn't  my  fault!"  Valerie  concluded  plain- 
tively. "I  can't  help  it  if  I  look  like  Mademoiselle! 
The  porters  brought  me  back,  but  the  celebration  is 
all  over.    Every  one  is  gone!" 

My  mother  was  very  angry  and  wanted  to  dis- 
miss the  girl  on  the  spot.    I  could  only  laugh.    It 

71 


MY  LIFE 

seemed  to  me  so  absurd!  When  we  got  back  to  the 
hotel,  no  one  was  in  sight,  but  the  steps  were  cov- 
ered with  flowers,  strewn  at  the  feet  of  my  cham- 
bermaid ! 

In  my  own  room  at  last,  I  could  not  sleep.  I 
stood  on  my  balcony,  looking  out  over  the  peaceful 
lagoon.  It  was  a  marvellous  night!  Venice  was 
still  a  city  of  gondolas  and  midnight  serenades. 
There  were  no  motor  boats  to  spoil  the  picture,  as 
there  are  to-day.  My  mother  was  thrilled  with 
joy  at  my  successes. 

"Never,  never  have  you  had  such  a  triumph!" 
she  exclaimed,  again  and  again.  She  had  forgiven 
Valerie  her  escapade  and  only  remembered  the 
flowers,  the  applause,  the  tributes  of  appreciation 
and  enthusiasm. 

Before  we  left  the  hotel  the  next  day,  we  were 
presented  with  a  bill. 

"For  carrying  off  in  the  portantina — 200  francs." 

My  mother,  greatly  incensed  and  surprised, 
called  the  manager. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  she  demanded. 

The  unhappy  man  was  overcome  with  embarrass- 
ment. 

"Patti's  manager  used  to  arrange  for  a  triumphal 

72 


A  VENETIAN  TRIUMPH 

progress  of  this  sort,"  he  explained.  "He  hired 
the  hallboys  and  musicians  from  the  hotel.  I 
thought  Mademoiselle,  too,  would  like  it.  I  am 
sorry,  if  you  are  displeased." 

"It's  really  too  much,"  wailed  my  mother,  "to 
have  to  pay  such  a  price  for  the  glorification  of  a 
maid!" 

In  after  years,  I  was  telling  this  tale  to  one  of 
my  comrades,  who  had  also  sung  with  success  in 
Venice. 

"Oh,  Calve!  What  a  blow!"  she  exclaimed  when 
I  had  finished  my  story.  "You  have  shattered  one 
of  my  most  precious  illusions!  My  poor  father 
must  have  had  to  foot  the  bill,  while  I  thought  that 
I  had  been  acclaimed  by  the  flower  of  Venetian 
nobility  1" 


CHAPTER  IX 

DARK  HOURS 

VENICE,  that  city  of  delight,  the  joy  of  poets 
and  the  home  of  beauty,  holds  for  me  other 
memories  than  those  of  the  gay  days  of  my  tri- 
umphs there.  For  me  it  is  darkened  by  the  shadow 
of  a  great  sorrow,  the  memory  of  a  day  when  my 
soul  touched  the  black  depths  of  passion  and  de- 
spair, and  yet  was  saved. 

I  was  alone.  For  a  whole  week  I  had  been  await- 
ing, in  an  anguish  of  pain  and  suspense,  the  arrival 
of  a  certain  letter.  It  came  at  last,  brutal,  crushing, 
final,  announcing  an  overwhelming  catastrophe,  the 
end  of  happiness,  the  death  of  hope. 

A  terrible  despair  seized  me.  I  wished  to  die. 
Leaning  from  my  balcony,  I  looked  into  the  black 
water  below,  longing  for  the  peace,  the  forgetting 
that  one  movement,  one  single  effort,  would  bring 
me.  Cut  off  from  the  world  around  me,  dumb  and 
blinded  by  my  pain,  I  bent  to  the  black  abyss.  But 
my  musician's  ear  was  not  yet  dulled.  A  sound 
penetrated  the  wall  of  my  despair.     I  heard  the 

75 


MY  LIFE 

voice  of  a  gondolier  singing  as  he  swung  his  oars. 

Ah!  To  sing  I  To  sing  once  more  before  I  died! 
To  cry  my  anguish  to  the  night  before  the  eternal 
silence  should  engulf  me! 

Like  one  distraught,  I  threw  my  cloak  about  me 
and  went  out  into  the  night.  A  barque  lay  at  the 
foot  of  the  stone  stairway  outside  my  door.  I 
found  myself  seated  in  it,  floating  along  the  still 
canal,  between  the  dark  water  and  the  darker  sky. 
I  began  to  sing,  madly,  passionately,  all  the  songs 
I  had  ever  known.  Gay  or  sad,  tender  or  tragic, 
they  poured  from  my  hps  in  a  turbulent  flood.  I 
sang  as  though  I  would  never  sing  again,  spending 
my  strength,  my  grief,  my  hf e ;  giving  to  the  unre- 
sponding  shadows  all  that  I  had  of  beauty  and 
of  art. 

Only  when  my  voice  died  in  my  throat,  and  my 
parched  lips  could  make  no  further  sound,  did  I 
realise  my  strange  situation.  As  one  who  pain- 
fully returns  to  reality  from  the  uncharted  seas  of 
fever  and  delirium,  I  looked  about.  I  saw  where 
I  was,  and  became  conscious  of  what  I  had  been 
doing. 

All  around  me  a  moving  mass  of  small  boats 
pushed  and  jostled.    They  had  gathered  from  every 

76 


DARK  HOURS 

side  like  spectre  ships  filled  with  whispering,  won- 
dering people.  In  a  barque  that  almost  touched  my 
own,  I  could  see  a  young  couple,  closely  embraced, 
watching  me  with  a  startled,  ardent  gaze.  How 
long  had  my  voice  been  leading  this  phantom  pro- 
cession through  the  night? 

I  shrank  back  under  the  hood  of  my  gondola,  my 
one  desire  to  hide  from  these  people  I  had  so 
strangely  evoked !  I  gave  my  gondolier  the  address 
of  a  friend  whom  I  knew  to  be  absent  and  in  whose 
empty  palazzo  I  could  take  sanctuary.  Many 
hours  later,  when  I  thought  the  way  was  open,  I 
left  my  place  of  refuge.  As  I  stepped  into  the 
waiting  gondola,  a  black  shadow  slipped  out  from 
the  protection  of  the  building  opposite  and  fol- 
lowed me  to  my  hotel.  The  lovers  on  the  lagoon 
had  not  given  up  the  vigil,  and  had  waited  to  dis- 
cover my  real  abiding  place! 

The  next  morning  a  bouquet  of  flowers  was 
brought  to  me  with  this  message: 

"From  Paul  and  Jeanne,  who  love  each  other 
greatly  and  to  whom  you  have  given  an  unforget- 
table night!  May  the  blessing  of  God  be  upon 
you,  you  who  are  the  bearer  of  the  Fire  Divine." 

These  last  words  touched  me  to  my  inmost  fibre. 

77 


MY  LIFE 

They  wakened  my  soul!  I  could  pray  at  last,  and 
I  thanked  God  that  I  was  still  alive! 

My  voice  had  saved  me. 

Nor  have  I  ever  forgotten  that  night.  Every 
year  on  the  same  day,  in  any  corner  of  the  world 
where  I  may  be,  I  receive  a  line  from  Paul  and 
Jeanne  with  its  inspiring  message  of  love  and 
gratitude. 


CHAPTER  X 

"CAVALLERIA"  AND  "CARMEN"  IN  PARIS 

\  FTER  my  successes  in  Italy,  I  was  eager  to 
^*^^  return  to  Paris.  When  Carvalho  engaged  me 
to  create  "Cavalleria  Rusticana"  at  the  Opera 
Comique,  I  went  back  to  the  scene  of  my  early  en- 
deavours, filled  with  ambition  and  enthusiasm.  Yet 
in  spite  of  the  experience  that  my  years  in  Italy 
had  brought  me,  I  felt  myself  out  of  place  in  this 
conventional  theatre,  where  tradition  and  estab- 
lished customs  were  blindly  venerated. 

My  interpretation  of  the  role  of  Santuzza  as- 
tonished my  comrades.  My  spontaneous  and  appar- 
ently unstudied  gestures  shocked  them.  Even  the 
costume  which  I  had  brought  with  me  from  Italy, 
the  clothes  of  a  real  peasant  woman,  coarse  shirt, 
worn  sandals  and  all,  was  considered  eccentric  and 
ugly.  I  was  unmercifully  criticised  and  ridiculed. 
At  the  dress  rehearsal,  I  heard  one  of  the  older 
singers  pass  judgment  upon  me. 

"What  a  pity!"  he  exclaimed.  "She  has  a  lovely 
voice,  and  she  has  really  made  astonishing  progress. 

70 


MY  LIFE 

But  such  acting!  In  this  part  of  the  world  we  do 
not  bang  on  the  table  with  our  fists  when  we  are 
singing.  At  the  rate  she  is  going,  she  wiU  be 
ruined!" 

The  speaker  was  a  man  for  whom  I  had  the 
greatest  respect  and  admiration.  His  remark  dis- 
turbed me  profoundly.  I  was  on  the  point  of 
changing  my  whole  manner,  which  was  apparently 
too  realistic  for  the  taste  of  the  moment.  The  night 
of  the  first  performance,  however,  as  I  was  about 
to  make  my  entrance,  courage  returned  to  me. 

"Come  what  will,"  I  thought,  "I  shall  act  the 
part  as  I  feel  it." 

I  went  on  the  stage,  and  I  was,  as  I  had  been 
before,  the  naive  and  tragic  Santuzza,  the  pas- 
sionate, impulsive  peasant  girl  of  Italy. 

It  was  a  triumph! 

Shortly  afterward,  I  created  "Carmen." 

If  I  was  criticised  out  of  all  measure  before  these 
two  successes,  after  them  I  was  praised  with  equal 
lack  of  restraint !  Everything  I  now  did  was  right. 
Unfortunately  for  me,  no  one  dared  utter  a  word 
of  criticism;  and  in  consequence,  I  was  carried 
away  by  my  passion  for  realism.  It  became  an 
obsession,  and  occasionally  I  overstepped  the  mark. 

80 


"CAVALLERIA"  AND  "CARMEN" 

Later,  however,  I  learned  wisdom  and  moderation. 

In  developing  the  role  of  Carmen,  I  used  the 
same  sincerity,  the  same  courage  and  disregard  of 
tradition,  that  I  had  in  my  interpretation  of  "Caval- 
leria."  I  insisted  on  wearing  the  fringed  shawl 
which  is  called  in  Spain  the  "manton  df  Manilla" 
instead  of  the  bolero  and  short  skirt  in  which  the 
part  had  always  been  costumed. 

In  the  matter  of  the  dance,  also,  my  ideas  and 
those  of  the  directors  did  not  agree !  They  wanted 
me  to  learn  the  steps  which  had  been  danced  with 
such  grace  and  charm  by  Galli-Marie,  the  original 
creator  of  the  role. 

"How  do  you  expect  me  to  imitate  Galli?"  I 
protested.  "She  was  small,  dainty,  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent build.  I  am  big.  I  have  long  arms.  It  is 
absurd  for  me  to  imitate  any  one  but  the  gypsies 
themselves!" 

Whereupon,  I  showed  them  the  true  dance  of  the 
gitanas,  with  its  special  use  of  arms  and  hands — 
a  manner  of  dancing  for  which  the  Spaniards  have 
invented  the  expression  "el  brazear." 

I  had  been  to  Grenada  and  I  had  visited  the  dis- 
trict of  the  Albaycin,  where  the  gypsy  bands  lived 
in  mysterious  caves  and  grottos.     I  had  watched 

81 


MY  LIFE 

them  in  their  daily  life.  I  had  seen  them  dance  and 
sing,  and  had  studied  their  gestures  and  movements. 
I  had  learned  how  the  women  dressed,  and  had 
bought  from  them  the  very  shawls  they  were  wear- 
ing. 'Nor  had  I  entirely  forgotten  my  youthful 
contact  with  these  strange  and  fascinating  people. 
I  came,  therefore,  to  the  study  and  interpretation 
of  this  role  with  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  I  was  able  to  develop  my  ideas  in  spite  of 
criticism  and  discouragement. 

It  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  speak  of  the  success 
of  Carmen.  I  have  sung  this  role  all  over  the 
world,  and  it  has  brought  me  whatever  fame  I  may 
have.  It  is  one  of  the  most  interesting,  and  per- 
haps the  most  popular  creation  of  my  long  operatic 
career. 

I  was  now  greatly  in  demand.  Following  closely 
upon  the  launching  of  "Carmen,"  I  obtained  excel- 
lent engagements  in  London  and  "New  York.  My 
popularity  was  assured.  But  my  greatest  reward 
was  the  appreciation  and  praise  of  the  generous  and 
warm-hearted  Galli-Marie. 

"Bravo!  Calve!"  she  said  to  me  one  day,  after  the 
performance.  "You  are  most  interesting  and  ori- 
ginal.   This  is  the  first  time  I  have  consented  to  at- 

82 


-^J 


:j 


"CAVALLERIA"  AND  "CARMEN" 

tend  a  performance  of  this  opera  which  reminds  me 
so  poignantly,  so  vividly,  of  my  own  youth." 

I  heard  from  her  again,  years  later,  at  the  time 
of  the  festivities  in  connection  with  the  thousandth 
performance  of  "Carmen."  I  was  asked  to  sing  the 
role  at  the  Opera  Comique.  On  the  day  in  ques- 
tion, I  received  a  telegram  from  Galli,  saying: 

"My  heart  and  my  thoughts  are  with  you  to- 
night." 

I  have  often  been  asked  whether  Carmen  is  my 
favourite  role.  Indeed,  it  is  not!  I  adore  Bizet's 
music,  but  the  character  is,  on  the  whole,  antipa- 
thetic to  me.  Yet  I  have  been  a  prisoner  to  that  op- 
era. It  is  apparently  eternally  popular,  particularly 
with  the  American  public.  My  impresarios,  who 
were,  above  all  things,  keen  business  men,  forced 
me  to  sing  it  much  more  often  than  any  other  role 
of  my  repertoire. 

Carmen  has  only  two  redeeming  qualities.  She 
is  truthful,  and  she  is  brave.  Even  in  the  face  of 
death,  she  will  admit  that  she  no  longer  loves! 
Marguerite,  Ophelia,  Juliet,  Elsa,  Santuzza,  have 
been  my  favourite  parts. 

I  have  had  the  privilege  of  creating  two  roles 
written  especially  for  me  by  our  great  composer, 

83 


MY  LIFE 

Massenet.  "La  Navarraise"  was  produced  at  Co- 
vent  Garden  in  London  in  1897;  "Sappho,"  a  year 
later.  I  have  sung  both  these  operas  frequently. 
The  first  is  short,  a  passionate  dramatic  tragedy 
in  one  act.  The  second,  taken  from  Alphonse  Dau- 
det*s  novel  of  the  same  name,  has  been  one  of  my 
most  successful  creations.  Massenet  wrote  it  for 
the  special  and  individual  notes  in  my  voice,  those 
unusual  tones  of  which  I  have  already  spoken. 

Massenet  was  a  very  popular  figure  in  his  day. 
His  witticisms  were  widely  quoted,  his  epigrams 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth.  He  was  agreeable, 
entertaining,  a  charming  individual  and  a  thorough 
Frenchman. 

At  the  last  general  rehearsal  before  the  first 
night  of  "Sappho,"  I  had  the  misfortune  of  arriv- 
ing at  the  theatre  ten  minutes  late.  The  company 
was  waiting,  and  Massenet,  excited  and  nervous  as 
usual,  was  decidedly  out  of  patience.  He  greeted 
me  abruptly,  disregarding  the  presence  of  my  com- 
rades and  the  members  of  the  chorus  and  orchestra. 

"Mademoiselle  Calve,"  he  said,  "an  artist  worthy 
of  the  name  would  never  keep  her  fellow  workers 
waiting!" 

I  was  extremely  angry.    Turning  away,  I  walked 

84 


"CAVALLERIA"  AND  "CARMEN" 

off  the  stage  and  started  to  leave  the  building.  On 
my  way  out,  I  had  a  change  of  heart.  It  took  all 
my  courage,  but  I  decided  to  go  back! 

"My  friends,"  I  said,  "the  master  is  right.  I 
am  at  fault.  Forgive  me !  I  am  ready  to  rehearse 
my  part,  if  I  am  permitted  to  do  so." 

The  chorus  and  the  orchestra  applauded.  Mas- 
senet embraced  me.  I  was  forgiven,  but  it  had  been 
a  painful  lesson.  Since  then,  I  have  never  been  a 
minute  late  for  even  the  most  unimportant  engage- 
ment. 

"Sappho,"  as  I  have  said,  was  taken  from  Al- 
phonse  Daudet's  book.  I  knew  the  distinguished 
writer,  and  used  to  visit  him  in  his  charming  house 
at  Champrosay.  He  received  me  in  his  study,  his 
sensitive  face  always  beautiful  and  calm,  in  spite 
of  his  suffering.  His  wife  and  children  were  with 
him,  devoted  to  his  care,  surrounding  him  with 
affectionate  attentions. 

We  were  talking  of  "Sappho"  one  day  and  dis- 
cussing the  presentation  of  the  character  on  the 
stage. 

"Remember  the  phrase  of  Baudelaire,"  Daudet 
admonished  me.  "Beware  of  movements  which 
break  the  line!    Few  gestures,  I  beg  of  you!    Be 

85 


MY  LIFE 

restrained,  calm,  classic.  She  is  called  Sappho  in 
the  play  because  she  posed  for  the  statue  of  the 
Greek  poetess." 

I  always  remembered  this  advice  and  strove  to 
carry  it  out  in  my  interpretation  of  the  role. 

We  used  to  talk  often  of  Aveyron,  my  own  be- 
loved country.  I  sang  the  songs  of  the  mountain- 
eers and  shepherds,  songs  without  accompaniment, 
which  I  had  learned  in  my  childhood. 

"You  evoke  all  your  race  in  your  singing,"  he 
said  to  me  one  day.  "Your  mountains  and  your 
wide,  high  plains  live  again  in  the  sound  of  your 
voice,  pure  and  luminous  like  golden  honey  I" 


'ed/do^iy/??^ 


9c 


c- 


IcruXiA  CjU  ipao^tA    It  -u^  ai  ic^lht4  oAftc  Vctit.  Uu/)taMtr 
I/ha-  (fiiCrc  ffeuiutt,  ii^tuffi    li^'  Vnii  ^C^hwnrui 


h 


^jjflnit 


{ Trannhition) 

I  liavo  written  those  pa£;p<;  with  tho  thoiicrlit  of  you  conKtantly  before  me — through 
yoTi  tliey  must  livt — they  belong  to  you  doubly  ntid  I  offer  them  to  you  with  an 
iiiiniite   gratitude. 

Mv  dear  wife  and  I,  admire, 
love, 
and   thank  you. 

MASSKNKT 
Paris,   ."^aturday,  27th  of  November,   1897. 
1st    Jierfdrniani'e 

(Theatre  de  I'Oix-ra  Cnmique). 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  COURT  AT  WINDSOR 

T  SANG  every  season  for  many  years  at  Covent 
-*•  Garden  in  London,  appearing  there  in  all  the 
operas  of  my  repertoire.  I  also  created  several 
roles  at  this  theatre,  notably  "La  Navarraise"  by 
Massenet,  in  1894,  and  "Amy  Robsart,"  the  first 
production  of  its  author,  de  Lara,  whose  "Messa- 
line"  I  sang  some  years  later. 

Each  year,  during  my  engagement  in  England, 
I  was  summoned  to  Windsor  Castle  to  sing  for 
Queen  Victoria.  I  shall  never  forget  my  first  audi- 
ence. We  had  been  waiting  in  the  reception  hall 
for  some  time,  when  the  Queen  entered,  leaning  on 
the  shoulder  of  a  young  Maharaja  of  India.  What 
an  extraordinary  picture  they  made;  he,  a  slender 
youth,  handsome,  exotic,  his  turban  surmounted  by 
a  flashing  spray  of  diamonds,  his  canary-coloured 
tunic  covered  with  j^recious  stones;  the  Queen,  in 
black,  as  usual,  the  severity  of  her  widow's  weeds 
hardly  lightened  by  the  little  white  tulle  cap  which 

87 


MY  LIFE 

she  wore  during  her  last  years.  Yet  it  was  the 
Queen  who  held  every  eye!  She  was  impressive, 
dominating,  a  real  presence,  in  spite  of  her  short 
stature  and  her  plain  exterior.  Her  blue  eyes, 
which  could  shine  with  such  tender  affection  for  her 
adored  grandchildren,  flashed,  stern  and  imperious 
to  the  world  at  large. 

The  Queen  spoke  excellent  French,  and  was  even 
f  amihar  with  Proven9al,  the  language  of  the  South 
of  France.  She  had  read  Mistral's  poems  in  that 
dialect  and  could  recite  many  of  them  from  mem- 
ory. She  was  interested  in  the  folksongs  of  old 
France,  and  used  to  ask  me  to  sing  them  for  her. 
How  gay  and  full  of  charm  she  was  in  her  moments 
of  relaxation!  She  used  to  call  me  a  child  of 
nature  and  laugh  at  my  inability  to  remember  the 
rules  of  etiquette. 

One  day  she  sent  for  me,  to  congratulate  me 
after  one  of  my  concerts.  I  was  very  much  moved 
by  what  she  said,  and  in  my  confusion  I  answered, 
"Yes,  Princess,"  to  one  of  her  questions.  She 
laughed,  delighted. 

"You  make  me  feel  young  again!"  she  exclaimed. 

As  I  was  leaving  her  presence,  walking  back- 
ward, as  custom  demands,  I  stumbled  on  my  dress. 

88 


THE  COURT  AT  WINDSOR 

Forgetting  everything,  I  turned  quickly  and  picked 
up  my  train.  Then  I  realised,  by  the  expression 
on  the  faces  of  those  around  me,  what  a  break  I  had 
made.  I  had  turned  my  back  on  the  Queen  I  She, 
however,  was  only  amused. 

"Go  on!  Go  on!"  she  said,  covering  my  embar- 
rassment with  a  laugh.  "You  are  charming  from 
the  back,  as  from  every  other  point  of  view!" 

During  my  visits  to  Windsor  Castle,  I  saw  many 
interesting  personages;  the  ill-fated  Czar  of  Rus- 
sia and  his  young  wife,  the  Crown  Prince  and  his 
fiancee,  the  King  of  Bavaria,  the  Kings  of  Sweden 
and  Greece,  the  Empress  Eugenie,  and  many 
others. 

Eugenie  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Windsor,  where 
Queen  Victoria,  who  had  a  warm  affection  for  her, 
always  welcomed  her  most  cordially.  I  had  been 
told  by  her  cousin.  Count  Primoli,  that  the  ex- 
empress  treasured  very  greatly  anything  that  re- 
lated to  her  son,  the  unfortunate  Prince  Imperial, 
whose  early  and  tragic  death  was  so  crushing  a 
blow  to  his  adoring  mother.  One  day  I  presented  to 
the  Empress  a  small  package  which  I  had  brought 
with  me  from  France.  In  a  few  words,  I  ex- 
plained the  impulse  that  had  led  me  to  take  a  bit 

89 


MY  LIFE 

of  earth  from  the  place  that  had  once  been  the 
orange  grove  of  the  Palace  of  the  Tuilleries. 

"They  tell  me  that  the  Prince  Imperial  used  to 
play  in  this  garden  as  a  child,"  I  said.  "Perhaps 
this  earth  still  holds  the  memory  of  his  footsteps." 
I  had  not  realised  how  much  my  gift  would  move 
her.  Pale  with  emotion,  she  took  the  little  bundle 
in  her  hands  and  left  the  room  hurriedly.  It  was  as 
though  this  handful  of  dry  dirt  were  some  holy  relic 
that  she  must  gaze  upon  alone  and  undisturbed. 

The  present  Queen  of  Spain  was  then  at  Court, 
a  little  girl  who  was  occasionally  permitted  by  her 
grandmother  to  attend  the  theatrical  performances 
given  at  Windsor.  She  was  present  one  evening 
when  I  sang  Santuzza  in  "Cavalleria."  In  one  of 
the  scenes,  the  tenor  had  to  throw  me  violently  to  the 
floor.    The  sensitive  child  burst  into  tears. 

"I  don't  want  him  to  hurt  the  lady!"  she  wailed, 
in  such  a  loud  voice  that  every  one  turned  and 
looked  at  her.  As  I  came  off  the  stage,  I  heard  the 
future  Queen  being  thoroughly  scolded  by  her  gov- 
erness. 

"A  princess  must  never  cry  in  public!"  she  said 
sternly.  "Your  people  are  watching  you.  Pull 
yourself  together!    Be  worthy  of  your  position!" 

00 


THE  COURT  AT  WINDSOR 

The  poor  little  girl,  who  could  not  have  been 
more  than  six  years  old  at  the  time,  drew  herself 
up.  She  swallowed  her  tears  and  walked,  sedate 
and  dignified,  through  the  lines  of  obsequious  at- 
tendants. Once  out  of  sight,  however,  I  heard  the 
sobs  break  out  anew.  Nature  had  triumphed!  I 
could  not  help  pitying  this  royal  child,  as  I  com- 
pared her  to  the  children  of  the  people,  who  have 
at  least  the  liberty  of  letting  their  tears  flow  unre- 
strained. 

I  have,  among  my  treasures,  a  charming  little 
picture  of  Queen  Victoria,  taken  from  a  portrait 
made  of  her  when  she  was  about  five  years  old. 
She  gave  it  to  me  one  day  at  Windsor  in  a 
frame  carrying  her  device  and  crest.  A  London 
newspaper  had  published,  a  little  while  before,  my 
own  picture  made  at  that  tender  age.  It  had 
apparently  greatly  amused  Her  Majesty,  for  she 
spoke  of  it  immediately  on  my  next  visit  to  the 
Court,  at  the  same  time  giving  me  the  delightful 
picture  of  herself,  which  I  reproduce  here. 

The  first  time  I  sang  at  Windsor  Castle  a  most 
absurd  incident  occurred.  I  was  sitting  in  the  suite 
of  rooms  which  had  been  set  aside  for  me,  waiting 
to  be  conducted  to  the  concert  hall.    It  was  after 

91 


MY  LIFE 

eight  o'clock,  and  I  was  supposed  to  sing  at  nine. 

Becoming  impatient,  I  rang  the  bell.  No  one 
answered.  I  told  my  maid,  who  was  with  me,  to 
go  in  search  of  some  one.  She  went  to  the  door. 
It  was  locked. 

''Mon  Dieiif  she  cried,  "we  are  prisoners!" 

There  was  no  telephone  in  those  days,  and  we 
could  not  make  ourselves  heard.  We  finally  gave 
up  the  attempt,  and  I  settled  down  philosophically 
to  write  some  letters.  My  maid,  who  appreciated 
the  opportunity  of  using  note-paper  with  the 
Windsor  crest  on  it,  did  likewise.  This  girl,  by  the 
way,  must  have  laid  in  a  large  supply  of  writing 
paper,  for  I  used  to  receive  letters  from  her  years 
after  she  had  left  my  service,  written  under  the 
royal  letterhead. 

We  were  finally  released  from  our  confinement 
by  an  agitated  lady-in-waiting,  who  explained  that 
the  sudden  death  of  the  maitre  d'hotel  had  thrown 
the  whole  household  into  confusion.  No  one  had 
realised  my  plight  until  I  failed  to  appear  on  the 
stage. 

One  of  the  admirable  and  endearing  qualities  of 
Queen  Victoria  was  her  kindness  and  consideration 
for  those  whom  she  honoured  with  her  favour.    I 

92 


QfKKX    \'UT()RIA    AT    FlVE 


THE  COURT  AT  WINDSOR 

remember  on  one  occasion  being  taken  ill  before 
a  concert  at  Windsor  Castle.  I  could  not  keep  my 
engagement,  and  it  was  suggested  that  some  one  be 
sent  to  take  my  place.  The  Queen  would  not  hear 
of  ft. 

"No,  indeed!"  she  said.  "It  would  pain  our 
friend.  Calve.  We  will  wait  until  she  has  entirely 
recovered." 

I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  Queen  not  only 
in  the  formal  splendour  of  Windsor  Castle,  but  in 
her  highland  home  at  Balmoral,  as  well.  There  I 
was  given  an  opportunity  of  judging  how  popular 
and  well  beloved  a  sovereign  she  was  among  her 
people.  The  whole  countryside  assembled  one  day 
on  the  terrace  of  the  castle.  All  the  farmers  of  the 
neighbourhood  were  there,  with  their  wives,  their 
children  and  their  grandchildren.  The  Queen 
walked  among  them,  gracious  and  kindly.  She 
seemed  to  know  every  one  by  name,  talking  to  them 
with  the  greatest  interest,  making  all  sorts  of  in- 
quiries as  to  their  welfare.  Later  in  the  day  a  ban- 
quet was  served  on  the  lawn,  under  the  trees — a 
charming  scene  of  rustic  hospitality^ 

As  a  result  of  my  many  visits  to  Windsor  and 
Balmoral,  I  came  into  contact  with  various  mem- 

93 


MY  LIFE 

bers  of  the  royal  family.  One  of  the  daughters  of 
Queen  Victoria  was  particularly  witty  and  amus- 
ing. I  remember  hearing  her  discuss  a  certain 
actress  of  the  Comedie  rran9aise,  who  was  playing 
the  part  of  a  society  woman  in  a  modern  comedy. 
The  only  criticism  that  could  be  made  of  this  tal- 
ented actress  was  that  she  played  the  part  over- 
conscientiously.  She  was  excessively  distinguished, 
impeccably  perfect. 

"What  does  your  Highness  think  of  Mile. 

in  this  part?"  some  one  asked  the  princess. 

"Oh,  I  am  no  judge!"  she  answered.  "I  do  not 
always  understand  her.  She  is  too  much  of  a  great 
lady  for  me!" 

The  royal  princesses  have  continued  their  kind- 
ness to  me  since  the  death  of  Queen  Victoria.  They 
receive  me  most  cordially  whenever  I  go  to  Lon- 
don, and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  being  presented  to 
the  Queen  of  Spain  only  a  short  time  ago.  She 
remembered  vividly  the  incident  of  her  childhood, 
and  we  laughed  again  over  her  anxiety  for  my 
safety,  her  tears,  and  the  scolding  she  received  in 
consequence. 

One  day  during  Queen  Victoria's  lifetime,  I 

94 


THE  COURT  AT  WINDSOR 

received  the  following  letter  from  her  cousin,  the 
Countess  Theodora  de  Gleiken : 

"Madam:  Her  Majesty  has  commanded  me  to 
make  a  portrait  bust  of  you  in  the  role  of  Santuzza 
in  'Cavalleria  Rusticana.'  Will  you  do  me  the 
very  great  honour  of  coming  to  my  studio  to  pose, 
or  would  you  prefer  that  I  should  come  to  you?" 

I  am  therefore  enshrined  in  marble  at  Windsor 
Castle,  in  the  company  of  princes  and  princesses, 
of  generals  and  kings ! 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  as  you  pose?"  the 
countess  asked  me,  one  day.  "How  do  you  manage 
to  hold  so  dramatic,  so  intense,  an  expression?" 

"I  am  trying  to  personify  human  jealousy,"  I 
answered,  "and  so  I  sing  to  myself  *He  loved  me 
once,  I  love  him  still!'  " 

The  sculptress  wrote  these  words  across  the  base 
of  the  bust,  and  I  have  often  thought,  should  that 
marble  be  lost  and  then  found  again  after  many 
hundred  years,  what  a  mystery  it  would  create  I 
Antiquarians  would  shake  their  heads  and  marvel. 

"Who  is  this  unfortunate  princess  dressed  in 
peasant's  clothes?"  they  would  ask.  "What  is  her 
history?    What  her  secret  sorrow?" 

It  would  be  a  nine  days'  wonder  I 

95 


MY  LIFE 

The  bust  is  not  yet  lost,  however,  for  only  a 
few  years  ago  I  asked  the  Princess  Beatrice  what 
had  become  of  it,  supposing  that  since  Queen  Vic- 
toria's death  it  had  been  relegated  to  some  attic 
storeroom. 

"Not  at  all!"  the  princess  assured  me.  "We  have 
gathered  together  all  our  mother's  favourite  pos- 
sessions, portraits,  statues,  mementos  of  all  kinds, 
and  placed  them  in  a  room  known  as  the  Victoria 
Room.  There  they  will  remain  as  long  as  the 
castle  stands." 

My  memories  of  England  are  not  all  of  royal 
gatherings  and  pleasant  places.  I  witnessed  there 
one  of  the  most  pitiful  scenes  that  I  have  ever 
beheld.  It  was  at  the  house  of  Lady  de  Gray,  one 
evening  during  a  brilliant  London  season.  Oscar 
Wilde  came  into  the  drawing  room  where  Lady  de 
Gray  was  receiving.  He  approached  our  hostess 
and  begged  her  to  allow  him  to  present  a  friend 
whom  he  had  taken  the  liberty  of  bringing 
with  him. 

"He  is  very  poor,"  Wilde  explained,  "and  very 
unhappy.  He  is  a  distinguished  French  poet,  a  man 
of  genius,  but  just  now  in  great  trouble." 

Our  hostess,  whose  kind  heart  and  generous  hand 

96 


THE  COURT  AT  WINDSOR 

were  ever  at  the  service  of  the  unfortunate,  imme- 
diately acquiesced.  Wilde  left  the  room  and  re- 
turned in  a  moment,  bringing  with  him — Paul  Ver- 
lainel  Their  entrance  was  spectacular.  Oscar 
Wilde  was  at  the  height  of  his  glory,  brilliant,  dash- 
ing, bejewelled,  a  veritable  Beau  Brummell.  With 
his  extraordinary  clothes,  his  tall  figure  and  buoyant 
carriage,  he  dominated  the  ill-clothed,  shrinking 
figure  beside  him. 

Wilde  was  rejoicing  in  his  recent  theatrical  tri- 
umphs. Verlaine  was  just  out  of  prison.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  poor  poet's  eyes  that  night,  eyes 
of  a  lost  child,  naive,  bewildered,  infinitely  pathetic ! 
They  haunt  me  to  this  day ! 

At  Wilde's  urgent  request,  Verlaine  consented 
reluctantly  to  recite  a  recent  poem,  "D'untPrison," 
which  he  had  written  while  he  was  in  prison.  His 
voice,  as  he  spoke  the  heart-breaking  lines,  was  so 
poignant,  so  tragic,  that  every  one  in  the  room  was 
moved  to  tears.  I  have  never  been  able  to  sing  that 
song,  set  to  music  by  Reynaldo  Hahn,  without  a 
reminiscent  shudder. 

Several  years  later  I  was  at  the  theatre  in  Paris. 
I  noticed  a  man  sitting  some  distance  from  me. 
He  was  badly  dressed,  his  shoulders  hunched,  his 

97 


MY  LIFE 

whole  appearance  shabby,  furtive.  There  was  some- 
thing vaguely  familiar  about  him,  but  I  did  not 
recognise  him  imtil  he  turned  his  head. 

It  was  Oscar  Wilde  I  Oscar  Wilde,  in  the  same 
forlorn  state  as  his  friend  Verlaine,  just  out  of 
prison  himself,  all  his  splendour  gone,  a  miserable 
wreck,  trying  to  hide  his  shame  in  the  indifferent 
crowd. 

I  went  toward  him,  greeting  him  with  out- 
stretched  hands.  He  started  at  the  sound  of  my 
voice  and  turned  toward  me.  Terrible!  I  saw 
again  the  pitiful  child's  eyes  of  poor  Verlaine.  For 
a  second,  he  shrank  from  me,  as  though  the  mem- 
ories that  I  brought  were  more  than  he  could  bear. 
Then,  with  an  exclamation  of  grief  and  despair, 
he  grasped  my  hands,  murmuring  in  broken  ac- 
cents : 

"Oh,  Calve!  Calve  1" 


I 


CHAPTER  XII 

METROPOLITAN  OPERA  HOUSE,  NEW  YORK 

MADE  my  debut  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  in  New  York,  on  November  29,  1893, 
in  the  role  of  Santuzza  in  "Cavalleria  Rusticana." 
The  American  public  did  not  care  very  much  for 
the  opera  at  that  time.  It  was  severely  criticised 
in  the  newspapers,  but  I  myself  had  a  great  success. 

The  next  morning,  the  directors  sent  for  me. 
They  wished  to  change  the  bill  immediately,  and 
asked  me  to  sing  "Carmen,"  not  in  French,  as  I 
had  always  sung  it,  but  in  Italian.  I  refused !  The 
effect  of  my  French  dictation  would  be  lost,  and 
the  whole  opera  would  be  thrown  out  of  focus.  It 
was  an  impossible  demand.  One  of  the  directors 
was  particularly  insistent,  and  not  entirely  cour- 
teous. 

"You  have  no  choice  in  the  matter  1"  he  said 
curtly.  "  'Cavalleria'  has  not  been  the  success  we 
expected.  We  must  make  a  change  immediately, 
and  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said." 

I  was  in  despair.    I  could  not  make  the  directors 

99 


MY  LIFE 

realise  what  I  myself  saw  so  clearly,  that  this  work 
of  art,  conceived  in  the  mind  of  a  Frenchman,  Pros- 
per Merimee,  put  to  music  by  a  French  composer, 
must  be  sung  by  me,  a  Frenchwoman,  in  French. 
In  no  other  way  could  it  be  given  its  full  value,  its 
true  flavour  and  quality.  It  seemed  to  me  both 
inartistic  and  impracticable  to  attempt  anything 
else.  If  the  directors  wished  to  replace  "Caval- 
leria"  with  a  success,  they  would  not  achieve  their 
object  by  putting  on  an  inefPective  "Carmen." 

In  my  agitation  and  helplessness,  I  appealed  to 
the  elder  Coquelin,  who  was  acting  in  New  York 
at  the  moment.  I  told  him  my  troubles.  He  sym- 
pathised entirely  with  my  point  of  view,  and  with 
his  usual  kindness  went  to  the  directors  himself 
and  used  his  influence  to  persuade  them  to  give  up 
the  idea.  They  told  him  that  they  had  no  French 
tenor  to  sing  the  role  of  Don  Jose,  and  that,  there- 
fore, I  would  have  to  sing  in  Italian!  Undaunted 
by  this  rebuff,  he  determined  to  succeed  where  they 
had  failed.  He  would  find  a  tenor.  He  went  to 
Jean  de  Reszke,  and  laid  the  case  before  him.  Al- 
though it  was  not  in  de  Reszke's  repertoire,  he 
promised  Coquelin  that  he  would  singfe  the  role. 

What  a  triumphant  success  was  that  production 

100 


Calvk  as  Car.-mex 


METROPOLITAN  OPERA  HOUSE 

of  "Carmen"!  From  then  on,  it  was  the  drawing 
card  at  the  Metropolitan.  We  gave  it  again  and 
again,  to  packed  houses.  The  box  receipts  were 
astounding!  In  the  succeeding  seasons,  its  pop- 
ularity never  waned.  There  was  no  further  ques- 
tion as  to  how  it  should  be  sung. 

What  unforgettable  casts,  what  glorious  eve- 
nings! Jean  de  Reszke,  Melba,  Plan^on,  and  my- 
self! The  public  was  wildly  enthusiastic.  After 
each  performance,  we  would  be  recalled  a  thousand 
times.  It  was  said  that  "Carmen"  became  epidemic, 
a  joyful  contagion! 

In  spite  of  my  manager's  enthusiasm  for  Bizet's 
opera,  I  sang  all  the  other  roles  of  my  repertoire  in 
New  York,  including  Marguerite  in  "Faust," 
Ophelia  in  "Hamlet,"  the  Marguerite  of  Boito's 
"Mefistofele,"  Massenet's  "LaNavarraise,"  and  the 
"Messaline"  of  de  Lara. 

For  more  than  twelve  years  the  Metropolitan 
was  a  fabulous  opera  house.  Never  have  so  many 
artists  of  exceptional  talent  been  gathered  together 
under  one  management.  It  was  due  largely  to  the 
genius  of  INTaurice  Grau,  who  was  one  of  the  most 
intelligent  as  well  as  one  of  the  ablest  impresarios 
I  have  ever  known.    He  was  more  than  a  capable 

101 


MY  LIFE 

business  man.  He  was  an  artist  and  an  enthusiast 
as  well.  If  he  considered  an  opera  above  the  aver- 
age, a  true  work  of  art,  he  would  produce  it  without 
regard  to  its  money-making  possibilities.  He  was 
interested,  first  and  foremost,  in  achieving  artistic 
success.  That  practical  and  financial  success 
should  follow  was  not  distasteful  to  him,  but  at 
least  it  did  not  blind  him  to  other  issues  I 

He  was  always  a  thoughtful  and  considerate 
manager  in  his  relations  with  his  artists.  I  shall 
never  forget  his  kindness  to  me  at  the  time  of  my 
father's  death.  I  was  singing  Carmen  when  I 
received  the  unexpected  and  crushing  news,  and  I 
was  in  constant  demand  at  the  opera  house.  At 
this  time  "Carmen"  was  exceptionally  popular.  It 
was  not  a  convenient  moment  for  me  to  be  given  a 
leave  of  absence,  but  Mr.  Grau  understood  my  dis- 
tress. 

*'My  poor  friend,"  he  said,  "I  shall,  as  you  know, 
lose  money  by  your  absence,  but  you  must  take 
your  time.  I  leave  you  entirely  free.  Come  back 
when  you  feel  that  you  are  able  to  sing  again!" 

His  kindness  was  surpassed  only  by  his  remark- 
able skill  and  abiUty  as  a  manager.  He  grouped 
around  him  a  brilliant  company  of  singers,  each  dis- 

102 


METROPOLITAN  OPERA  HOUSE 

tinguished  in  his  own  line,  every  one  a  musician  and 
an  artist. 

Victor  Maurel 

Foremost  among  them  was  Victor  JVIaurel,  the 
great  tragedian,  a  man  of  genius,  whose  Falstaff 
and  lago,  not  to  mention  his  many  other  brilliant 
creations,  stand  alone.  His  name  will  remain  for- 
ever linked  with  that  of  Verdi.  I  have  never  seen 
any  one  with  a  more  noble  presence,  a  greater  dig- 
nity of  gesture  and  carriage,  on  the  stage.  His 
dramatic  gift  was  so  extraordinary  that  it  domi- 
nated the  minds  of  those  who  saw  him,  and  almost 
made  them  forget  his  voice,  which  was,  nevertheless, 
of  an  unusual  quality,  full  of  colour  and  excep- 
tionally expressive. 

The  role  in  which,  to  my  mind,  his  qualities  as 
a  singer  showed  to  best  advantage  was  that  of  Mo- 
zart's "Don  Giovanni."  I  can  still  hear  the  inimita- 
ble manner  in  which  he  sang  the  famous  serenade, 
"Deh,  vieni  alia  fenestra"  (Appear,  love,  at  the 
window) .  His  performance  was  a  marvel  of  light- 
ness and  grace.  His  diction  was  always  exquisite 
and  enchanting. 

And  his  Falstaff!  With  what  elegant  fatuity 
he  rendered  the  air  "Quand'eri  paggio  del  Duca  di 

103 


MY  LIFE 

Norfolk!"  (When  I  was  page  to  the  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk!)   It  was  a  masterpiece,  complete  and  perfect. 

He  was,  as  I  have  said  before,  my  teacher  and 
master  in  the  art  of  lyric  declamation.  I  was  for- 
tunate in  making  my  debut  with  him  in  "Aben 
Hamet"  at  the  Theatre  des  Italiens,  of  which  he 
was  at  the  time  director.  I  was  then  very  inex- 
perienced, and  he  had  an  important  and  construc- 
tive influence  on  my  career.  I  have  an  abiding 
gratitude  and  admiration  for  him. 

I  am  fortunate  in  being  able  to  reproduce  here 
a  most  interesting  portrait  of  Maurel  as  lago.  It 
is  taken  from  a  painting  by  Benjamin  Constant 
and  shows  Maurel  in  one  of  his  most  interesting  and 
important  characterizations. 

How  many  other  artists  of  the  very  first  order 
there  were  in  this  remarkable  company! 

Jean  de  Reszke,  the  unforgettable,  master  of  the 
art  of  singing,  whose  style  and  finish  have  never 
been  equalled.  He  was  the  Romeo  of  one's  dreams, 
the  ideal  Lohengrin,  the  perfect  Siegfried. 

Edouard  de  Reszke,  of  the  glorious  voice,  was 
his  brother.  Both  admirable  singers,  they  were  an 
unusual  pair,  each  the  complement  of  the  other. 

Marcella  Sembrich,  marvellous  singer,  impecca- 

104 


From  the  painting  hy  Benjamin  Con'itant 

Character  Portrait  of  Victor  Mauhel 


METROPOLITAN  OPERA  HOUSE 

ble  vocalist  in  the  art  of  bel  canto,  has  left  in  the 
memory  of  all  those  who  had  the  privilege  of  hear- 
ing her  an  impression  of  perfect  execution  in  all 
the  coloratura  roles  which  she  so  admirably  inter- 
preted. 

Melba,  whose  pure  voice  soared  like  a  skylark, 
* 'intimate  of  heaven." 

Lilli  Lehmann,  that  noble  singer,  whose  author- 
itative style,  scientific  knowledge  and  perfection 
both  in  singing  and  in  acting  aroused  the  admira- 
tion of  artists  and  public  alike. 

Emma  Eames,  whose  voice  and  talent  equalled 
her  great  beauty. 

Madame  Nordica,  admirable  interpreter  of  Wag- 
ner, whose  sudden  death  in  Australia  was  so  great 
a  blow  to  all  her  friends. 

Milka  Ternina,  highly  intellectual — a  Kundry 
beyond  compare. 

Madame  Clementine  de  Vere,  accomplished 
musician,  whose  lovely  voice  had  an  unusual  range. 
She  was  an  accomplished  musician  and  possessed 
a  very  large  operatic  repertoire. 

Madame  Schumann-Heink,  who,  after  a  long 
and  successful  operatic  career,  has  continued  to  de- 
light the  American  public  from  the  concert  stage. 

105 


MY  LIFE 

Salignac  of  the  fiery  temperament,  talented  sin- 
ger and  actor  who,  after  his  engagement  in  New 
York,  became  one  of  the  leading  figures  on  the 
stage  of  the  Opera  Comique  in  Paris,  where  he 
created  a  number  of  extremely  interesting  roles. 

Plan9on,  the  admirable  bass,  exponent  of  the 
pure  French  school  in  art  and  diction,  with  whom 
I  sang  for  many  years  both  in  the  United  States 
and  in  England. 

And  poor  Castelmary,  my  old  friend  and  com- 
rade, who  died  so  tragically  on  the  stage  while  sing- 
ing Sir  Tristan  in  von  Flotow's  "Martha."  I  was 
in  the  audience  that  night.  As  soon  as  he  came  on 
the  stage,  I  noticed  that  he  looked  tired  and  ill. 
In  the  second  scene,  where  he  is  surrounded  by  the 
village  maidens,  who  are  supposed  to  prevent  his 
pursuit  of  INIartha,  I  saw  him  stagger  and  throw 
his  arms  in  the  air. 

"I  am  choking!"  he  cried. 

The  chorus,  thinking  this  an  impromptu  piece  of 
acting,  crowded  around  him  even  more  closely, 
laughing,  teasing,  pulling  him  about,  smothering 
him  with  their  embraces.  He  struggled  frantically 
for  one  or  two  minutes,  and  then  fell  to  the  floor 
with  a  crash. 

106 


METROPOLITAN  OPERA  HOUSE 

Every  one  rushed  behind  the  scenes,  but  it  was 
too  late.  He  was  dead.  Nothing  could  be  done 
for  him.  I  tried  to  wipe  the  make-up  from  those 
cold  cheeks!  It  was  difficult,  impossible!  I  put  a 
crucifix  between  his  hands,  and  they  carried  him 
away  as  he  was,  in  his  comedian's  costume. 

Speaking  of  my  comrades  at  the  Metropolitan 
reminds  me  of  a  tenor  with  whom  I  appeared  for 
a  single  performance  only — a  most  extraordinary 
experience ! 

The  bill  that  evening  was  "Cavalleria  Rusticana," 
with  Salignac  as  Turiddu.  When  I  arrived  at 
the  theatre,  I  heard  that  my  partner  was  ill.  Much 
perturbed,  I  inquired  who  was  to  take  his  place. 

"It  is  quite  all  right!"  I  was  assured.  "An  ex- 
cellent substitute  has  been  found.  A  very  fine  sing- 
er, well  known  in  New  York.  Go  ahead  with  the 
performance!" 

After  my  aria  in  the  first  act,  the  tenor  enters. 
Imagine  my  stupefaction,  when  I  saw  before  me  a 
hunchback!  A  hunchback,  of  whom  I  was  sup- 
posed to  be  passionately  enamoured,  desperately 
jealous!  It  was  grotesque!  I  heard  some  one  in 
the  audience  snicker.     I  was  furious! 

I  turned  to  leave  the  stage,  indifferent  to  the 

107 


MY  LIFE 

scandal  it  might  create,  when  I  was  arrested  by 
the  expression  on  the  face  of  the  unfortunate  man. 
Timid,  fearful,  ashamed,  the  mute  appeal  in  his 
eyes  touched  my  heart.  Pity  overcame  my  anger. 
I  took  up  my  cue,  and  went  on  with  the  scene. 

Fortunately,  an  inspiration  came  to  my  rescue. 
I  made  the  poor  man  sit  down.  He  looked  like  a 
dwarf,  when  standing,  but  seated,  he  seemed  taller. 
I  threw  myself  on  my  knees  before  him,  and  with 
my  arms  about  him  I  sang  the  passionate  love  song 
of  Santuzza.  It  was  a  difficult,  one  of  the  most  diffi- 
cult things  I  have  ever  had  to  do;  but  in  order  to 
save  the  situation,  I  sang  with  such  sincerity,  such 
conviction,  and  he,  poor  creature,  with  so  much 
good  will,  that  we  made  a  tremendous  hit.  Between 
each  curtain,  he  would  wring  my  hands,  tears  of 
gratitude  streaming  from  his  eyes. 

"Thank  you!  Thank  you!"  was  all  he  could  say, 
over  and  over  again. 

As  I  look  back  upon  those  years  at  the  Metro- 
politan, they  are  illuminated  by  a  radiance,  a 
glamour  of  their  own.  It  was  due  in  no  small  meas- 
ure to  the  enthusiasm  and  cordiality  of  that  great 
American  public,  which  welcomed  us  with  open 
arms,  and  filled  the  huge  auditorium  with  respon- 

108 


METROPOLITAN  OPERA  HOUSE 

sive  and  delighted  crowds.  The  critics  and  the  peo- 
ple joined  in  greeting  us,  year  after  year,  not  with- 
out discrimination,  but  with  a  heart-warming  ap- 
preciation that  made  us  happy  to  return  to  that 
great  land. 

This  does  not  mean  that  we  were  never  criti- 
cised. No,  indeed !  Each  one  of  us,  and  the  troupe 
as  a  whole,  received  occasionally  a  thorough  rating 
from  the  press.  I  remember  that  at  one  time  a  vio- 
lent discussion  was  in  progress  with  reference  to  the 
salaries  paid  the  stars  of  the  Metropolitan. 

"These  European  song  birds,"  the  papers  said, 
"go  beyond  the  limit.  They  come  over  here  and 
demand  the  most  enormous  sums.  They  make  all 
their  money  here,  and  they  fly  home  with  it.  It  is 
outrageous!    It  ought  to  be  stopped!" 

An  enterprising  reporter  interviewed  Duse  on 
this  subject.  She  answered  him  with  her  usual 
wisdom  and  grace. 

"You  are  astonished,"  she  said,  "that  these  great 
opera  singers  should  be  able  to  command  such  high 
salaries.  Have  you  ever  considered  the  heritage 
that  goes  to  the  making  of  so  marvellous  and  deli- 
cate an  instrument  as  Melba  and  Calve  possess? 
Do  you  realise  how  many  generations  of  clean  and 

109 


MY  LIFE 

simple  living  flower  in  those  pure  voices?  Calve 
once  told  me  of  a  remark  that  her  father  made  one 
day  after  hearing  her  sing.  It  is  so  appropriate 
and  so  true  that  it  needs  no  further  comment. 

'*  'Ah,  my  daughter,'  he  said.  'It  is  easy  to  see 
that  your  forebears  have  economised  for  you. 
Through  the  long  ages  they  have  sat  mutely  by 
their  firesides,  spinning  and  weaving  through  the 
quiet  hours.    Your  song  is  made  of  their  silences.'  " 

Our  seasons  with  Maurice  Grau  were  not  all 
spent  quietly  in  New  York.  Part  of  the  time  we 
travelled  through  the  United  States  and  sang  in 
all  the  important  cities  in  the  country.  After  these 
long  tours  and  the  hard  work  of  the  winter  months, 
we  turned  our  faces  toward  Europe.  But  for  my- 
self and  certain  other  members  of  the  troupe,  the 
year's  work  was  not  yet  done.  We  were  engaged 
in  England  to  sing  at  Covent  Garden.  The  season 
in  London  is  later  than  in  New  York;  and  so,  in 
spite  of  the  fatigues  of  my  American  engagements, 
I  appeared  there  during  six  or  eight  weeks  in  all  my 
different  roles. 

By  the  time  the  London  season  was  over,  I  was 
more  than  ready  to  take  refuge  in  the  quiet  country 
of  my  birth,  and  to  play  at  being  shepherdess  or 

110 


METROPOLITAN  OPERA  H0U3E 

milkmaid  on  my  farm  in  Aveyron.  But  after  my 
months  of  rest,  I  was  again  prepared  to  return  to 
work,  work  which  is,  in  spite  of  all  its  trials  and 
difficulties,  the  breath  of  an  artist's  life. 

Year  after  year,  I  returned  to  America  for  the 
winter  months.  I  did  not  leave  the  boards  of  the 
Metropolitan  for  many  years.  In  1906  I  sang 
for  one  season  at  the  Manhattan  Opera  House,  and 
after  that  I  went  on  extensive  concert  tours,  visit- 
ing all  the  important  cities  of  the  United  States  and 
Canada,  welcomed  everywhere  with  a  joyful  cor- 
diality by  a  public  which  is  the  most  eclectic,  the 
most  enthusiastic,  that  I  have  ever  known. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

EN  ROUTE  THROUGH  THE  UNITED  STATES 

rFlHE  troupe  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House, 
^  under  Maurice  Grau's  management,  used  to 
go  all  the  way  to  California  every  year.  We  trav- 
elled in  a  private  train,  on  the  outside  of  which  was 
written  in  letters  a  yard  high: 

THE  METROPOLITAN  OPERA  HOUSE 
OF  NEW  YORK 

We  were  a  travelling  circus!  Some  of  us  ob- 
jected to  this  blatant  labelling  of  our  cars,  but  Mr. 
Grau  was  adamant. 

"It's  an  excellent  advertisement!"  was  his  an- 
swer to  our  mild  protests.  There  was  nothing  for 
us  to  do  but  to  accept  the  situation  as  gracefully 
as  possible. 

We  were  a  source  of  infinite  amusement  and  en- 
tertainment to  the  inhabitants  of  the  regions 
through  which  we  passed.    The  people  of  the  little 

113 


MY  LIFE 

villages  on  our  route  would  wait  at  the  stations  for 
hours,  just  to  see  our  train  go  by.  They  would 
crowd  around  the  cars  when  the  train  stopped,  and 
gape  at  us  through  the  windows  as  though  we  were 
a  collection  of  strange  animals. 

"There's  Melba!"  some  one  would  shout. 

"Look  at  de  Reszkel" 

"That  tall  one  is  Plan9on!" 

"Come  here,  quick!"  some  one  else  would  call. 

"It's  Calve  at  this  end!" 

It  was  a  ludicrous  performance! 

One  day,  when  we  were  crossing  Texas,  we 
stopped  at  a  small  town,  since  grown  into  the  impor- 
tant city  of  Houston.  A  crowd  of  cowboys  had 
collected  from  all  parts  of  the  state,  and  were  at 
the  station  when  we  arrived.  There  must  have 
been  over  three  hundred  of  them,  fine,  strapping 
fellows,  who  greeted  us  with  whoops  and  cries,  in 
true  western  style. 

"You  must  sing  for  these  boys,"  Mr.  Grau  said 
to  us.  "Many  of  them  are  young  Englishmen, 
younger  sons  of  good  families,  who  have  not  been 
home  for  years.  It  would  give  them  so  much  pleas- 
ure to  hear  you." 

We  went  out  on  the  back  platform  of  the  train, 

114 


THROUGH  THE  UNITED  STATES 

and  Melba  sang  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  for  them. 
Her  lovely  nightingale  tones,  clear  and  exquisite 
in  the  still  air,  reached  every  heart.  The  roughest 
among  them  was  softened,  touched  to  the  quick, 
by  the  tender,  sentimental  strains  of  the  old  ballad. 
Before  it  was  over,  many  were  in  tears,  crying  like 
children,  with  their  heads  on  each  other's  shoul- 
ders.   We  were  all  greatly  moved. 

"Now,  Calve,"  Mr.  Grau  said,  turning  to  me, 
"it's  your  turn.    You  must  make  them  laugh!" 

So  I  sang  a  dashing  Spanish  air,  with  its  dance 
gestures  and  gay  grimaces.  They  were  a  responsive 
audience!  The  train  pulled  out  of  the  station 
through  a  shouting,  yelling  mob,  hats  in  air,  whips 
cracking,  a  tornado  of  sound  and  movement !  Some 
of  those  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  leaped  on  their 
horses  and  raced  along  beside  the  train,  as  fast  as 
their  poor  beasts  could  go.  The  last  we  saw  of 
them  was  a  thick  cloud  of  dust  beside  the  railroad 
track  in  our  wake. 

We  went  through  Utah,  the  country  of  the  Mor- 
mons. On  the  outlying  farms  and  in  the  lonely 
regions,  there  were  still  families  which  followed  the 
teachings  of  Brigham  Young  and  practiced  plural 

115 


MY  LIFE 

marriages.  I  visited  a  home  where  there  were  three 
wives  and  many  children.  Two  of  the  wives  re- 
ceived us  surrounded  by  five  or  six  lovely  babies. 
I  picked  up  the  prettiest  of  them,  and  turned  to  the 
younger  of  the  two  women. 

"What  a  beautiful  baby!"  I  exclaimed.  "Is  it; 
your  child?" 

She  answered  me  with  the  quiet  dignity  of  a 
woman  of  the  Old  Testament. 

"We  are  the  mothers,"  she  said,  including  her 
companion  in  a  noble  gesture. 

We  gave  opera  in  several  cities  in  California.  I 
remember  in  one  of  the  smaller  towns  I  had  an 
amusing  experience.  I  was  expecting  a  letter  by 
registered  mail,  and  called  at  the  post  office  to  find 
out  if  it  had  arrived. 

"Yes,"  the  clerk  answered.  "There  is  a  letter 
for  Calve,  but  I  cannot  give  it  to  you  unless  you 
have  some  papers  to  identify  you." 

"Oh,  please!"  I  begged  in  the  best  English  I 
could  muster.  "Don't  make  me  come  back  again! 
It's  my  letter,  I  assure  you.    I  am  Calve." 

"You  Calve!"  he  exclaimed  incredulously. 
"Come  off!  I  heard  her  three  days  ago  in  'Car- 
men.'   You  don't  look  the  least  bit  like  her!" 

116 


THROUGH  THE  UNITED  STATES 

He  turned  away  scornfully,  adding  in  an  under- 
tone to  the  man  beside  him : 

"Calve's  much  prettier  than  this  one  I" 

"I  am  delighted  that  I  appear  to  be  more  beauti- 
ful than  I  am,"  I  answered,  having  overheard  the 
whispered  remark.  "I  will  sing  the  'Habanera'  for 
you,  and  I  hope  my  voice  at  least  will  seem  as  good 
nearby  as  it  does  at  a  distance!" 

Whereupon  I  threw  back  my  head  and  launched 
into  "L'amour  est  enfant  de  Boheme,"  to  the  aston- 
ishment of  the  whole  post  office.  My  friend,  the 
clerk,  was  speechless.  He  pushed  the  letter  toward 
me  without  another  word.  Evidently  my  identity 
was  established! 

We  came  back  from  the  coast  by  way  of  St. 
Louis,  Chicago  and  Pittsburgh,  singing,  acting, 
travelling  by  day  and  night — busy  and  exhausting 
trips.  By  the  time  we  approached  the  Atlantic 
coast  again,  we  were  thoroughly  tired  out.  I  re- 
member one  night  in  Pittsburgh  we  were  all  feeling 
particular  weary.  Salignac,  with  whom  I  was  to 
sing  that  night,  came  to  me  before  the  performance. 

"I  hope.  Calve,"  he  said,  "that  we  can  take  things 
a  little  quietly  to-night.  I  am  at  the  end  of  my 
rope,  and  you,  too,  are  tired  out.    You  know  what 

117 


MY  LIFE 

it's  like,  once  we  get  on  the  stage.  Our  devilish  tem- 
peraments get  away  with  us,  and  we  throw  our- 
selves into  our  parts  as  though  our  lives  depended 
on  it.  I  warn  you  now  that  for  this  one  evening  it 
will  be  a  different  story!" 

I  agreed  with  him  and  promised  to  hold  myself 
in  as  much  as  possible.  There  was  a  double  bill  for 
that  evening:  Sembrich  in  two  acts  of  "Barber  of 
Seville,"  followed  by  "Cavalleria  Rusticana"  with 
myself  and  Salignac.  While  the  "Barber"  was  in 
progress,  I  stood  in  the  wings,  watching  the  audi- 
ence. I  wanted  to  know  what  kind  of  people  we 
would  find  in  this  town,  with  which  I  was  then  not 
very  familiar.  Raising  my  eyes  to  the  balcony,  I 
saw  in  the  last  seats,  right  up  under  the  roof,  rows 
and  rows  of  men  in  overalls  and  rough  clothes,  their 
faces  black  with  soot,  their  eyes  shining  in  the  dark. 
They  were  the  coal  miners,  of  course! 

"Poor  devils!"  I  thought,  as  I  watched  them. 
"They  have  saved  their  pennies  to  pay  for  their 
seats  up  there.  They  have  hurried  here  from  their 
work  just  as  they  were.  It's  probably  the  first 
time  they  have  ever  heard  grand  opera." 

I  called  Salignac  and  pointed  them  out  to  him. 

118 


THROUGH  THE  UNITED  STATES 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  fair  to  sing  half- 
heartedly for  those  poor  fellows?"  I  asked.  "I  ad- 
mit that  I  cannot  do  it.  It's  true  I  am  very  tired, 
but  I'll  rest  to-morrow.  Who  knows!  They  may 
even  be  men  from  my  own  country  I  They  say  that 
there  are  many  miners  from  Decazville  here  in 
America." 

Salignac,  always  warm-hearted  and  generous, 
felt  exactly  as  I  did.  We  sang  that  night  with  all 
our  strength,  our  nerves,  our  temperament,  and  we 
were  fully  rewarded  for  our  efforts  by  the  bombard- 
ment of  applause  from  the  upper  galleries.  After 
the  performance,  I  received  a  magnificent  bouquet, 
to  which  was  attached  a  document  bearing  over  a 
hundred  signatures : 

TO  OUR  FAMOUS  COMPATRIOT 

EMMA  CALVE 

FROM  HER  COUNTRYMEN  OF  AVEYRON,  WHO 
ARE  HAPPY  TO  HAVE  BEEN  ABLE  TO  AP- 
PLAUD HER  AT  LAST,  AND  PRAY  TO  BE 
ALLOWED  TO  PRESENT  THEIR  RESPECTS. 

They  came,  every  one  of  them,  and  we  embraced 
in  true  Latin  style,  a  kiss  on  either  cheek.  When  it 
was  over,  my  face  was  as  black  as  theirs.  I  looked 
like  a  chimney  sweep! 

119 


MY  LIFE 

I  have  made  many  tours  alone  in  America,  as 
well  as  in  the  Metropolitan  troupe.  Truly,  I  know 
that  great  country  well,  and  have  seen  it  grow  and 
flourish  astoundingly.  I  have  traversed  it  from 
ocean  to  ocean,  from  border  to  border,  in  every  sea- 
son and  under  all  sorts  of  conditions. 

During  my  concert  tours  of  1906  and  1908,  one 
of  the  dreams  of  my  childhood  was  realised.  I 
had  always  longed  to  live  in  a  gypsy  van,  to  be  able 
to  come  and  go  at  will,  like  a  true  Bohemian,  with 
my  house  on  my  back.  I  had  this  experience  in  a 
glorified  degree  when  I  travelled  in  a  private  car 
all  over  the  United  States.  My  pleasure  was  some- 
what marred  by  the  fact  that  I  had  to  keep  my 
engagements  in  various  cities  and  towns  at  a  fixed 
day  and  hour,  but  otherwise  my  luxurious  home 
was  a  source  of  unending  delight.  What  fun  it  was 
to  come  back  after  an  evening  performance  to  this 
little  house  on  wheels,  with  its  comfortable  bed- 
rooms, its  kitchen,  dining  room  and  bath!  Every- 
thing that  heart  could  desire,  even  to  the  amusing 
and  capable  services  of  three  negroes  supplied  by 
the  Pullman  Company! 

Sometimes,  in  crowded  or  dirty  cities,  we  would 

120 


THROUGH  THE  UNITED  STATES 

arrange  to  have  our  car  left  on  a  siding  in  the 
suburbs.  When  we  were  ready  to  move  on  to  the 
next  destination,  we  would  be  picked  up  by  the 
regular  train  and  attached  to  the  end  of  a  long 
line  of  cars.  There  was  a  charming  balcony  full 
of  flowers  at  the  back  of  my  little  house,  where  1 
could  sit  all  day  in  the  fresh  air  watching  the 
changing  panorama  that  flowed  past  me  through 
the  peaceful  hours. 

Often  I  would  return  to  my  car  late  in  the  eve- 
ning, after  my  concerts.  As  I  prepared  for  the 
night  the  train  would  begin  to  move,  and  I  would 
drop  off  to  sleep,  rocked  by  its  gentle  motion,  car- 
ried in  the  dark  toward  new  scenes  and  unexplored 
horizons. 

Once,  when  I  was  in  Canada,  I  was  caught  in  a 
blizzard.  It  snowed  all  night ;  and  when  I  woke  in 
the  morning,  I  found  it  was  impossible  to  leave  the 
car.  The  snow  was  in  high  drifts  all  around,  and 
neither  horses  nor  automobiles  could  get  through. 
I  had  to  reach  the  concert  hall  somehow,  and  so  I 
was  carried  there  by  two  burly  men.  I  laugh' 
to-day,  when  I  think  of  the  picture  we  made!  I 
was  in  a  red  velvet  dress,  with  my  hair  done  in 

121 


MY  LIFE 

Spanish  fashion,  a  fur  cloak  thrown  around  me, 
my  jewels  sparkling  in  the  brilliant  sunlight. 
Every  one  stopped  to  stare.  I  must  have  looked 
like  a  gypsy  queen,  borne  through  the  snowy  streets 
on  the  strong  arms  of  my  henchmen! 

We  were  not  as  luxurious  as  this  in  the  days  of 
the  Grau  opera  tours.  We  had  to  make  ourselves 
comfortable  in  small  quarters,  and  the  arrange- 
ments were  not  always  of  the  best.  On  some  of  the 
long  runs  we  had  to  carry  our  own  food  supplies, 
for  the  buifets  at  the  stations  were  so  poor  that  we 
could  not  eat  there.  We  had  merry  times  at  our 
improvised  suppers,  and  managed  to  while  away 
the  hours  on  the  train  gaily  enough.  But  we  were 
not  sorry  to  be  back  in  'New  York  in  the  end,  and 
it  was  there,  of  course,  that  we  spent  the  greater 
part  of  our  season. 

I  have  spoken  of  my  visits  to  Windsor,  and  the 
glimpses  I  had  of  England's  Queen.  It  is  not 
amiss,  perhaps,  to  mention  that  uncrowned  sover- 
eign, who  was  the  darling  of  the  American  people 
during  her  distinguished  husband's  terms  of  office 
— Mrs.  Grover  Cleveland,  wife  of  the  President  of 
the  United  States. 

122 


E.MJi^  Calve  on  a  Conckrt  Tolr  in  the  United  States 


THROUGH  THE  UNITED  STATES 

It  was  my  curious  fate  one  day,  not  to  meet  the 
great  lady — I  had  already  had  that  pleasure — but 
to  act  as  her  substitute.  She  had  promised  to  at- 
tend a  public  reception  in  her  honour  at  a  bazaar 
held  for  the  benefit  of  some  charitable  organisation. 
At  the  last  moment  she  was  taken  ill  and  was  un- 
able to  go.  The  ladies  in  charge  decided  to  ask 
some  opera  star  to  take  her  place,  and  selected  me. 

I  can  see  myself  standing  on  a  raised  platform 
in  the  middle  of  that  room,  rather  embarrassed, 
holding  a  large  bouquet  on  my  left  arm,  and  giving 
"handshakes"  to  all  that  crowd  of  people!  At  the 
end  of  an  hour  my  right  hand  was  worn  out.  I 
changed  the  bouquet  over,  and  continued  with  my 
left,  to  the  intense  amusement  of  the  bystanders. 
After  I  had  shaken  hands  with  about  five  thousand 
people,  I  said  to  myself  that  nothing  in  the  world 
would  ever  induce  me  to  go  in  for  this  little  game 
again ! 

IVIy  comrades  of  the  musical  world  joined  the 
throng  and  filed  solemnly  past  me,  bowing  cere- 
moniously and  making  polite  remarks  appropriate 
to  the  occasion.  I  tried  to  maintain  a  proper  dig- 
nity, to  live  up  to  my  role ;  but  I  was  overcome  with 

123 


MY  LIFE 

laughter,  and  I  am  afraid  we  all  disgraced  our- 
selves. 

I  have  kept  the  gloves  that  I  wore  that  day. 
They  started  out  white ;  but  by  the  end  of  the  enter- 
tainment they  looked  as  though  they  had  been 
dipped  in  ink. 

So  you  see,  I  have  played  a  little  of  everything 
in  America,  from  Carmen,  the  gypsy  girl,  to  the 
First  Lady  of  the  Land! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  SPANISH  AUDIENCE 

^r^HE  year  1897  saw  me  in  Spain,  a  brief  episode, 
-*-  more  like  a  page  from  a  dime  novel  than  an 
event  in  ordinary  life!  I  had  been  warned,  before 
I  went  there,  that  the  audiences  were  difficult  to 
manage.  The  evening  of  my  first  appearance,  the 
famous  matador  Mazzantini  came  to  me  in  my 
dressing  room  before  the  performance. 

"Don't  be  upset  if  you  hear  a  lot  of  noise,"  he 
said,  by  way  of  encouragement.  "Go  ahead 
bravely,  and,  above  all,  do  not  leave  the  stage  before 
you  have  finished  your  scene.  The  two  artists  who 
appeared  here  recently  were  so  agitated  by  their 
rough  reception  that  they  walked  off  the  stage 
without  singing  a  note.    It  was  a  fatal  mistake!" 

It  was  most  fortunate  that  I  had  been  thus  fore- 
warned. I  have  certainly  never  encountered  a  more 
frantic  public.  The  moment  I  appeared  on  the 
stage  I  was  greeted  with  howls,  shrieks,  snatches  of 
song,  remarks  hurled  across  the  theatre  from  one 
balcony  to  the  other,  a  bedlam  of  noise. 

125 


MY  LIFE 

I  was  wearing  a  blond  wig,  and  this  for  some  rea- 
son f ocussed  their  attention. 

"She  is  red-headed!"  one  would  call.  "No,  she 
isn't!  She  is  a  brunette  I"  answered  another.  "I've 
seen  her  close  by!  She  is  a  blond!"  "How  beauti- 
ful!" "Not  at  all!  She's  ugly."  "Is  she  a  Span- 
iard?" "No!  French!"  "Hi!"  "Yah!"   "Whoop!" 

I  never  heard  such  a  clamour! 

It  was  impossible  to  begin.  I  was  stunned,  and 
believed  it  was  a  cabal,  until  my  partner  whispered 
reassuringly : 

"It's  always  like  this  when  an  artist  makes  her 
debut.    They'll  stop  after  a  while !" 

But  I  could  not  stand  there  stupidly  doing  noth- 
ing. I  am  impatient  by  nature,  and  I  was  not  going 
to  wait  tamely  on  their  good  pleasure.  I  stepped 
bravely  to  the  front  of  the  stage. 

"My  friends,"  I  said  in  Spanish,  and  with  the 
most  charming  smile  I  could  muster,  "do  you  wish 
me  to  begin,  or  do  you  wish  me  to  go  away?  If  I 
am  to  begin,  be  quiet!  If  you  continue,  I  shall 
make  you  my  deepest  courtesy  and  leave!" 

It  had  the  desired  effect,  and  silence  descended 
on  the  auditorium.  We  were  able  to  begin  our  duo, 
and  the  evening  ended  in  a  whirlwind  of  enthusiasm 

126 


A  SPANISH  AUDIENCE 

and  approval.    I  had  a  great  success,  and  all  went 
well  until  the  bill  was  changed. 

My  second  debut  was  in  "Cavalleria  Rusticana." 
The  same  storm  of  cries  and  interrogations  greeted 
me  as  on  the  first  night.  Evidently  there  was  a 
cabal — by  whom  organised  or  for  what  purpose, 
I  have  never  wished  to  know. 

I  was  very  much  discouraged.  I  went  the  next 
day  to  see  the  Due  de  T.,  to  whom  I  had  a  letter  of 
introduction,  and  I  asked  him  whether  I  should 
attempt  to  sing  "Carmen"  for  such  an  extraordi- 
nary public. 

"I  would  not  advise  you  to  do  so,"  he  answered 
frankly.  "We  do  not  like  that  opera  in  Spain, 
although  we  fully  appreciate  Bizet's  genius.  I 
have  seen  you  in  the  role  at  the  Opera  Comique 
in  Paris.  You  are  marvellous  in  it,  and  I  have  too 
much  admiration  for  your  talent  and  respect  for 
you,  to  wish  to  see  you  in  an  uncomfortable  situa- 
tion." 

"But  my  contract  stipulates  that  I  shall  sing 
'Carmen'  here,"  I  answered.  "If  I  do  not  do 
so,  I  shall  call  down  the  wrath  of  the  managers 
on  my  unfortunate  head!  I  shall  have  to  pay  a 
large  indemnity!" 

127 


MY  LIFE 

"Nevertheless,  I  advise  you  to  go,*'  he  said  with 
some  insistence.  "No  one  will  follow  you  into 
France." 

Acting  on  his  advice,  I  decided  to  leave  imme- 
diately. When  I  told  one  of  my  comrades  my  plan, 
he  listened  skeptically. 

"My  dear  Calve,"  he  said,  "don't  you  know  that 
the  tenor  Marconi  was  shut  up  in  his  room  under 
guard  for  two  weeks,  simply  because  he  refused 
to  sing  a  certain  role?  The  laws  in  this  country 
are  strict.  The  theatres  are  subsidized  by  the  gov- 
ernment, and  they  make  you  obey  orders  as  though 
you  were  in  the  army!" 

I  could  not  help  bursting  into  laughter  at  the 
idea  of  Carmen  being  arrested  in  real  earnest, 
though  the  situation  was  becoming  rather  trying! 
I  packed  my  trunks,  in  spite  of  my  friend's  gloomy 
prognostications,  and  made  ready  to  leave  the  hotel. 
Suddenly  the  proprietor  appeared  at  my  door. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "you  cannot  leave  the 
building!  If  you  attempt  to  do  so,  your  trunks  will 
be  seized.  I  am  telling  you  for  your  own  good,  to 
save  you  annoyance.  There  are  two  policemen  at 
the  door  to  prevent  your  escape!" 

Imagine  my  fury  and  alarm !    I  went  back  to  my 

128 


A  SPANISH  AUDIENCE 

room  and  wrote  a  hasty  note  to  the  Marquis  de  R., 
who  was  then  the  French  Minister,  and  at  whose 
house  I  had  sung  a  few  days  before.  I  told  him 
my  predicament  and  begged  him  to  advise  me  what 
to  do.  In  a  very  short  time,  one  of  the  attaches 
of  the  Embassy  arrived. 

"Madame,"  he  said  in  his  most  courtly  manner, 
"take  my  arm,  I  beg  you.  I  will  escort  you  to  the 
station.  Fear  nothing.  You  are  under  the  pro- 
tection of  France!  Leave  your  maid  to  take  care 
of  your  luggage,"  he  added  with  a  smile.  "They 
certainly  cannot  force  her  to  sing  Carmen  1  She 
can  join  you  later." 

Thus  did  I  leave  Spain!  It  is  the  only  country, 
by  the  way,  where  the  great  Patti  was  hootedl 
All  this  happened  some  thirty  years  ago.  I  be- 
lieve that  to-day  the  public  is  less  ardent! 

I  went  back  to  Paris  after  my  Spanish  adven- 
ture. There  I  renewed  my  engagement  at  the 
Opera  Comique,  but  it  was  not  for  long.  Mr.  Grau 
cabled  for  me  to  return  to  America  immediately. 
The  Carmen  who  had  replaced  me  in  New  York 
did  not  prove  the  success  that  had  been  expected. 
Grau  paid  my  forfeit  at  the  Opera  Comique,  and 
my  entry  at  the  Metropolitan  was  triumphant. 

129 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  CITY  OF  MEXICO 

ON  one  of  my  innumerable  concert  tours  in 
America,  I  went  to  Mexico.  It  was  so  long 
ago,  that  I  have  almost  forgotten  the  year!  At 
that  time,  Mexico  remained  in  about  the  same  stage 
of  civilisation  as  Spain  had  been  in  two  centuries 
before.  When  I  visited  the  haciendas  near  Vera 
Cruz  or  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city  of  Mexico,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  stepped  backward  through 
the  ages  to  a  place  and  time  where  the  old  patriar- 
chal customs  were  in  use — a  land  which  still  held 
the  flavour  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

One  day,  I  was  taking  a  walk  on  the  outskirts 
of  a  small  town  not  far  from  the  capitol.  I  had 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  rest  by  the  wayside,  in 
the  shadow  of  a  grove  of  banana  palms,  when  I  saw 
coming  toward  me  along  the  dusty  road  a  proces- 
sion which  seemed  to  have  walked  straight  out  of 
the  past! 

At  the  head  of  the  cavalcade  rode  two  mounted 
algiiazil,  looking  more  like  heralds  of  old  in  their 

131 


MY  LIFE 

gorgeous  trappings  than  modern  guardians  of  law 
and  order.  They  were  followed  by  a  troop  of  men 
in  black,  servants,  retainers,  petty  clerks  and  de- 
pendents, all  the  types  of  followers  that  swelled  the 
cortege  of  a  great  seigneur  of  the  old  days.  The 
mules  on  which  these  men  rode  were  gaily  capari- 
soned, carrying,  every  one  of  them,  a  cascade  of 
jingling  bells. 

In  the  centre  of  the  group  rode  a  beautiful  woman 
holding  a  baby  in  her  arms,  both  of  them  clothed  in 
sweeping  silken  garments  covered  with  jewels !  The 
focus  of  attention,  however,  was  the  proud  mas- 
ter and  father!  He  rode  a  white  charger,  and  his 
costume  was  in  every  detail  what  might  have  been 
worn  by  his  far-off  ancestor  in  seventeenth-century 
Spain.  Only  his  hat  was  different,  for  he  wore  the 
peaked  sombrero  of  Mexico,  covered  with  a  red 
scarf  and  ornamented  all  around  its  border  with 
balls  of  gold. 

Haughty  and  aloof,  he  passed  the  place  where  my 
maid  and  I  were  standing.  He  did  not  deign  even 
to  glance  our  way,  but  with  a  lordly  gesture  he 
threw  us  silver  coins  from  the  heavy  bag  that  hung 
on  his  saddle  bow.     Amused  and  fascinated,  we 

132 


THE  CITY  OF  MEXICO 

followed  the  procession  into  the  village,  and  learned 
that  our  noble  cavalier  was  a  rich  distiller,  taking 
his  son  and  heir  to  church  to  be  baptised!  We 
watched  him  as  he  dismounted  with  his  cortege  in 
the  square  in  front  of  the  cathedral.  We  saw  him 
toss  a  fortune  to  the  gaping  crowd,  then  turn  and 
walk  into  the  church,  leaving  the  mob  outside  to 
fight  and  squabble  for  his  kingly  bounty! 

Mexico  City  is  situated  at  a  very  great  altitude. 
I  knew  this  before  I  went,  but  I  never  for  a  moment 
thought  that  it  would  affect  my  voice.  The  first 
days  that  I  was  there,  I  did  not  feel  very  well,  but 
I  thought  nothing  of  it.  My  impresario  came  to  me 
several  times  before  my  first  concert,  inquiring 
anxiously  after  my  health,  and  asking  whether  I 
thought  I  was  in  good  voice.  I  assured  him  that 
all  was  well,  but'  the  night  of  my  concert  I  felt 
extremely  uncomfortable.  My  breath  was  poor, 
and  I  was  very  much  dissatisfied  with  my  perform- 
ance. After  the  concert,  I  was  talking  with  the 
French  Minister. 

"It  is  most  extraordinary,"  he  said,  "that  you 
were  able  to  sing  so  soon  after  your  arrival.  Do 
you  know,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  "the  race  horses 

133 


MY  LIFE 

that  are  imported  to  this  part  of  the  country  have 
to  be  kept  here  two  or  three  months  in  order  to 
become  acclimated.  It  is  out  of  the  question  to 
race  them  during  tliat  period.  I  was  astonished 
that  you  were  able  to  get  through  your  long  pro- 
gramme so  soon  after  your  arrival!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  CUBAN  INTERLUDE 

I  MADE  my  first  trip  to  Cuba  not  long  after  my 
tour  in  Mexico.  The  island  then  was  not  as  it 
is  now!  Since  the  United  States  took  charge  of  it, 
everything  has  been  made  clean,  comfortable  and 
civilised,  so  that  the  little  cities  of  Cuba  can  now 
rival  their  American  sisters  in  orderliness  and 
luxury. 

I  had  gone  to  Florida  one  year,  for  a  few  weeks' 
rest  and  in  the  hope  of  curing  a  rather  persistent 
cold.  After  we  had  been  there  for  some  time,  my 
travelling  companion  suggested  that  we  should  go 
across  to  Cuba  and  visit  that  romantic  island.  I 
was  delighted  with  the  idea,  and  we  started  imme- 
diately. 

Havana  was  our  first  stopping  place.  I  can  re- 
member its  odour  to  this  day — a  mixture  of  pepper, 
tobacco,  burnt  sugar,  and  squalour!  Our  efforts 
to  find  a  hotel  where  we  could  bear  to  spend  the 
night  were  long  and  painful!  We  would  go  to  a 
hostelry,  make  our  inquiries,  ask  to  see  the  rooms. 

135 


MY  LIFE 

One  glance  at  the  beds  we  were  supposed  to  occupy 
would  be  sufficient  to  send  us  flying! 

Finally  we  managed  to  find  a  passable  lodging, 
where,  after  we  had  directed  the  necessary  cleaning 
up,  we  were  able  to  spend  the  night.  The  next 
morning  our  quarters  were  invaded  by  a  swarm  of 
shawl  merchants,  whose  packs  were  filled  with  the 
most  gorgeous  Spanish  shawls.  The  papers  had 
proclaimed  the  presence  of  Carmen  in  Havana, 
and  I  was  expected  to  buy  the  whole  supply!  The 
shawls  were  so  beautiful  that  I  would  have  been 
glad  to  do  so,  but  I  should  have  had  to  sing 
"Carmen"  for  a  thousand  years  in  order  to  use 
them  all! 

We  travelled  about  a  good  deal,  in  spite  of  our 
difficulty  in  finding  places  to  sleep.  I  remember 
that  at  Santiago  we  lay  on  wire  springs,  without 
mattress  or  pad  of  any  kind !  The  food  was  inde- 
scribable. We  ate  nothing  but  fruit  and  guava 
jelly.  Nevertheless,  we  enjoyed  ourselves  thor- 
oughly. We  travelled,  sang  and  laughed,  and 
learned  the  danza,  the  dance  which  later  developed 
into  the  tango. 

Finally  we  started  homeward.  Arriving  at 
Havana,  we  lingered  on  a  few  days,  having  finally 

136 


A  CUBAN  INTERLUDE 

found  a  comfortable  hotel  where  we  were  well 
served  and  pleasantly  entertained.  One  day  I  re- 
ceived a  cablegram  from  my  manager  in  New  York, 
asking  me  to  return  at  once,  as  I  was  urgently 
needed. 

We  rushed  to  our  rooms  and  were  soon  packed 
and  ready  to  sail.  The  little  chambermaid,  Pacca, 
who  had  done  so  much  to  make  us  comfortable, 
was  helping  me  to  strap  up  my  last  bag. 

"Madame  is  quite  right  to  leave,"  she  remarked 
in  Spanish.  "She  has  been  sleeping  in  the  same 
bed  in  which  the  poor  little  ballet  dancer  from  the 
opera  died  only  a  week  or  so  ago.  ^he  died  of 
yellow  fever!     The  town  is  full  of  it!" 

"Good  heavens!"  I  exclaimed.  "You  miserable 
child!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  at  once?  I'll  catch 
it  as  sure  as  fate!  How  could  you  do  such  a  ter- 
rible thing?" 

"Madame  was  so  kind,"  the  girl  answered  in 
tears.  "I  didn't  want  Madame  to  go  away!  Be- 
sides," she  added  fatalistically,  "Madame  knows  the 
proverb,  Nadie  se  muere  hasta  que  Dios  lo  quiere/' 
(No  one  dies  before  God  wills.) 

Cold  comfort  for  me!  But  there  was  no  use 
wasting  words.     The  fat  was  alreadj'-  in  the  fire. 

137 


MY  LIFE 

I  had  done  everything  I  should  not  have  done 
under  the  circumstances — eaten  raw  fruit  and  oys- 
ters, walked  in  the  midday  sun,  rowed  on  the  mos- 
quito infested  inlets!  I  left  Havana  and  returned 
to  my  work,  never  giving  another  thought  to  the 
matter.  ^'Nadie  se  muere  hasta  que  Dios  lo 
quiere" — • 


M 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ST.  PETERSBURG 
Y  first  encounter  with  a  Russian   audience 


was  truly  in  keeping  with  the  traditions  of 
that  emotional  and  impulsive  people.  The  day 
before  my  debut  in  St.  Petersburg,  my  impresario 
arrived  at  the  hotel  early  in  the  morning  to  inform 
me  that  a  rehearsal  of  "Hamlet"  with  the  Italian 
tenor  Battistini  was  scheduled  for  the  afternoon. 

"Be  prepared !"  he  admonished  me.  "Make  your- 
self beautiful  I  The  rehearsals  are  often  attended 
by  the  ladies  of  the  court,  the  Grand  Dukes  and 
Duchesses.  In  fact,  it  is  impossible  to  tell  who  will 
be  there,  for  the  members  of  the  royal  household 
are  very  fond  of  music  and  like  to  hear  the  artists 
who  come  here  for  the  first  time,  before  they  make 
their  regular  appearance." 

When  I  arrived  at  the  theatre,  I  found  a  basket 
of  water  lilies  in  my  dressing  room,  with  a  note 
from  the  Grand  Duchess  Vladimir,  saying  that 
they  were  for  Ophelia's  mad  scene.  The  moment  I 
walked  on  the  stage,  I  saw  that  my  manager  had 

139 


MY  LIFE 

spoken  truly.  The  theatre  was  crowded!  All  the 
cachets  from  the  naval  training  school  were  there, 
as  well  as  many  officers  and  ladies  of  distinction. 
I  was  glad  that  I  had  followed  my  manager's  hint 
and  put  on  a  becoming  dress !  In  the  mad  scene  I 
wore  the  lilies  the  Duchess  had  sent  me,  twined  in 
my  long  black  hair,  very  beautiful  and  luxuriant 
in  those  days,  and  which  I  allowed  to  fall  over  my 
shoulders  for  the  last  act. 

The  effect  was  apparently  excellent,  for  I  was 
recalled  twenty  times  after  the  curtain  went  down. 
The  Russian  public  is  very  artistic,  very  sensitive, 
and,  above  all,  very  enthusiastic.  The  last  time  I 
came  out,  I  found  the  cadets  climbing  up  on  to  the 
stage!  They  had  chased  the  musicians  from  their 
places,  swarmed  into  the  orchestra  pit,  and  were 
clambering  over  the  footlights  to  get  at  me.  The 
first  thing  I  knew,  I  was  surrounded  by  the  young 
madcaps,  who  kissed  my  hands,  my  scarf,  the 
sleeves  of  my  dress,  overwhelming  me  with  compli- 
ments and  exclamations  of  delight.  I  could  not  get 
away  from  them.  Finally,  in  an  excess  of  enthusi- 
asm, one  of  them  bit  my  arm! 

"Fiends!  Savages!"  I  cried.  "Are  you  going 
to  devour  me?    Let  me  pass!"    And  with  a  heroic 

140 


Cai.vl  as  Opiiki.ia 


ST.  PETERSBURG 

effort,  I  succeeded  in  reaching  my  dressing  room 
and  shutting  myself  in  behind  locks  and  bars  I 

The  next  week,  when  I  was  to  sing  "Carmen," 
I  told  the  director  that  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
for  me  to  be  left  in  peace  after  the  performance, 
and  that  therefore  I  would  not  take  any  curtain 
calls.  I  was  determined  not  to  risk  another  such 
ovation ! 

"Good  Lord!  That  will  never  do  I"  he  exclaimed 
in  despair.  "You  must  make  your  bow  as  usual. 
It's  just  their  little  way.  You  mustn't  mind  them! 
Every  one  would  think  you  were  putting  on  airs 
if  you  did  not  accept  the  homage  of  the  public." 

Thus  adjured,  I  consented!  And  indeed,  no  one 
did  climb  up  on  the  stage  when  I  took  my  call.  The 
public  was  wildly  enthusiastic,  but  stayed  on  its  own 
side  of  the  footlights.  When  I  left  the  theatre, 
however,  I  found  a  mob  of  young  officers  and  cadets 
waiting  at  the  stage  door!  Before  I  could  say  a 
word,  they  lifted  me  up  in  their  arms  and  carried 
me  across  the  snow  to  my  waiting  troika! 

While  I  was  singing  in  St.  Petersburg,  an  im- 
pressive memorial  service  took  place  at  the  Basilica 
of  St.  Paul,  in  honour  of  the  former  Czar.  The 
French  Ambassador  had  given  me  a  ticket  which 

141 


MY  LIFE 

permitted  me  to  witness  the  ceremonies  from  the 
seats  reserved  for  the  diplomatic  corps. 

Dressed  in  my  best,  I  arrived,  as  is  my  wont, 
promptly  on  the  hour  named.  I  was  received  by 
the  master  of  ceremonies,  who  asked  me  something 
in  Russian.  I  knew  only  two  words  of  that  for- 
midable language,  da  and  niet,  yes  and  no. 
Boldly  I  made  use  of  half  my  vocabulary  and  an- 
swered Da!  to  his  question.  Whereupon,  he  con- 
ducted me  with  much  ceremony  to  an  excellent  seat 
in  the  highest  place  of  the  reserved  enclosure.  The 
crowd  outside  the  grating  stared  at  me  curiously. 
I  supposed  they  envied  my  excellent  position,  and 
I  sat  there  quite  calmly  until  I  heard  the  organ 
burst  into  the  strains  of  the  national  anthem.  Turn- 
ing, I  beheld  the  Czar  and  the  Czarina,  with  all  the 
lords  and  ladies  of  their  suite,  approaching  me  in 
a  solemn  procession. 

Fortunately  for  me,  the  Duchess  Vladimir  was 
among  them.  She  detached  herself  from  the  group 
and  hurried  to  my  side. 

"Madame  Calve,"  she  whispered  in  an  agitated 
undertone,  "get  up  quickly!  You  are  sitting  in  the 
seat  of  the  Empress  Mother!" 

I  could  have  sunk  through  the  floor!     Covered 

142 


ST.  PETERSBURG 

with  confusion,  I  rose  hastily  from  my  seat  and 
made  my  way  out  of  the  enclosure.  I  had  to  pass 
in  front  of  the  whole  court  before  I  could  reach 
the  modest  place  that  had  been  reserved  for  me  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  church. 

The  next  day  I  went  to  the  Duchess  to  make  my 
apologies  and  to  explain  what  had  happened.  She 
was  very  much  amused. 

"Ah,  my  friend!"  she  said.  "One  can  go  far  in 
this  country  with  a  little  word  like  that!" 

My  unintentional  blunder  in  the  cathedral  was 
apparently  not  held  against  me,  for  not  long  after- 
ward I  was  engaged  to  sing  in  the  home  of  a  lady 
of  the  highest  standing  in  court  circles.  A  violinist 
of  international  reputation  was  to  play  at  the  same 
time.  The  night  of 'the  performance  a  super!) 
troika,  laden  with  gorgeous  fur  robes,  came  for  me 
and  carried  me  to  the  house  where  I  was  to  sing. 
My  comrade  had  already  arrived  when  I  made  my 
appearance.  We  were  received  by  a  most  charming 
and  gracious  lady  who  was  apparently  entirely 
alone !    She  begged  us  to  begin  at  once. 

"My  guests  are  there,"  she  said,  indicating  a  high 
screen  that  separated  the  long  salon  into  two  parts, 
"but  they  wish  to  remain  incognito.    Will  you  be 

143 


MY  LIFE 

so  kind  as  to  permit  them  to  listen  to  you  from  the 
other  side  of  the  screen?" 

I  was  so  astonished  at  the  request  that  I  was  on 
the  point  of  raising  some  objection;  but,  observing 
that  my  colleague  appeared  to  take  the  situation 
philosophically,  I  followed  his  lead.  As  we  walked 
toward  the  piano,  he  turned  to  me. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,"  he  said.  "I  have  had  a 
similar  experience  once  or  twice  before  in  this  coun- 
try. It  seems  to  be  merely  one  of  their  strange 
customs!" 

Bravely  I  took  my  place  before  that  silken  bar- 
rier, and  sang  as  best  I  could  to  its  unresponsive 
expanse.  Our  hostess  applauded  discreetly,  and  I 
heard,  from  time  to  time,  murmurs  of  pleasure  and 
approbation  from  our  invisil^e  audience. 

A  week  or  so  later,  I  was  summoned  to  the  Im- 
perial Palace  to  give  a  concert  there.  The  proced- 
ure was  almost  identical  with  that  of  the  enigmatic 
evening.  Were  the  same  personages  present? 
Was  it  the  same  mysterious  audience?  I  have 
never  known! 

In  Russia,  as  in  all  the  countries  that  I  have 
visited,  I  knew  many  different  types  of  people. 
It  is  one  of  the  privileges  of  an  artistic  life,  that 

144 


ST.  PETERSBURG 

in  our  profession  we  can  consort  with  high  and  low 
alike,  with  kings  and  peasants,  artists  and  socialists, 
governors  and  rebels.  One  of  my  acquaintances  in 
St.  Petersburg  was  an  ardent  young  revolutionist, 
a  nihilist  fiery  and  determined.  She  told  me  her 
hopes,  her  dreams.  She  described  the  sufferings 
of  the  people,  and  explained  to  me  the  ideals  of 
their  champions. 

"You  need  not  look  at  me  with  that  expression 
of  astonishment,'*  she  said  to  me  one  day  after  a 
particularly  passionate  harangue.  "You,  with  your 
artist's  soul,  would  feel  as  I  do,  if  you  lived  here 
long!" 

Poor  little  thing!  Six  months  later,  she  wrote  to 
me  from  Siberia. 

"See  how  far  my  convictions  have  led  me!"  she 
said  in  her  letter.  "I  am  at  the  far  end  of  Europe, 
dying  of  cold  and  hunger.  How  often  do  I  think 
with  longing  of  those  unforgettable  hours  when  I 
heard  you  singing  Ophelia  and  Carmen!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  CONCERT  IN  THE  PALACE  OF  THE 
SULTAN  OF  TURKEY 

/^ANE  year,  on  my  return  from  Russia,  I  vis- 
^-^  ited  Turkey.  While  I  was  in  Constantinople, 
I  sang  at  the  home  of  the  French  Ambassador. 
There  I  met  Nazim  Pasha,  one  of  the  leading  fig- 
ures of  the  day  and  a  familiar  at  the  Court  of 
Abdul-Hamid.  He  asked  me  whether  it  would  in- 
terest me  to  sing  for  the  Sultan.  Needless  to  say, 
I  assured  him  that  it  would! 

A  week  later,  a  chaouch  of  the  Palace,  one  of 
those  magnificent  mounted  servants  whom  I  had 
occasionally  seen  in  the  streets,  brought  me  word 
that  His  Majesty,  the  Sultan,  summoned  me  to  the 
Palace  and  gave  me  permission  to  sing  in  the 
harem.  A  little  note,  unsigned  but  written  in  a 
feminine  hand,  begged  me  to  bring  the  music  of 
"Carmen,"  the  comb,  fan,  mantilla,  and,  most  par- 
ticularly, the  castanets  for  the  dance. 

I  felt  an  undeniable  thrill  of  terror  at  the  idea 
of  coming  into  contact  with  the  "Red   Sultan," 

147 


MY  LIFE 

whose  word  made  Islam  tremble,  and  whose  evil 
reputation  had  spread  to  every  corner  of  the  globe. 
The  moment  I  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  gor- 
geous palace  of  Yildiz,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  sun 
was  swallowed  up,  that  all  the  radiance  and  glory 
that  flooded  the  Bosphorus  had  disappeared! 

I  was  conducted  into  a  great  hall  hung  with  mar- 
vellous tapestries,  where  slave  girls,  in  garments 
of  many-coloured  silk,  stood  straight  and  motion- 
less against  the  walls.  A  few  moments  after  my 
arrival,  the  Sultanas  entered.  Clothed  in  all  the 
splendour  of  their  native  costume,  lovely  and  wel- 
coming, they  clustered  about  me.  One  of  them, 
who  spoke  French  very  well,  begged  me  to  sing 
the  Song  of  the  Birds,  the  "Mysoli,"  which  I  had 
sung  at  the  Embassy,  and  of  which  they  had  heard 
so  much. 

I  had  hardly  begun  to  sing,  when  I  became  aware 
of  a  strange  sensation  of  anxiety,  a  sort  of  terror, 
surging  up  within  me.  I  turned  and  saw  a  man 
standing  at  a  little  distance  from  me.  Ugly,  lean, 
sinister,  his  eagle's  gaze  fastened  upon  me,  he 
dominated  the  room.  Every  one  bowed  before  him, 
the  slaves  prostrate  on  the  floor,  the  Sultanas  bent 
low.    I  realised  that  it  was  He !    My  voice  caught 

148 


THE  SULTAN  OF  TURKEYi 

in  my  throat,  and  my  poor  little  accompanist 
stopped  short,  trembling  with  fear.  He  seated  him- 
self, without  speaking  a  word,  and  signed  to  us 
to  continue. 

I  finished  my  song  and  sang  many  more.  Fi- 
nally, I  dared  to  look  at  my  terrifying  listener. 
He  seemed  abstracted,  distant,  indifferent  to  my 
singing,  unconscious  even  of  my  presence,  as  though 
lost  in  painful  meditation. 

The  little  Sultana  who  had  spoken  to  me  before 
urged  me  to  commence  "Carmen"  at  once.  The 
Sultan  roused  himself  when  I  began,  and  seemed 
to  take  some  little  pleasure  in  my  dancing.  Sud- 
denly his  eyes  gleamed  strangely  as  he  watched  me. 

"Good  heavens!"  I  thought.  "If  I  should  have 
the  bad  luck  to  please  him!" 

I  instantly  pictured  myself  shut  up  in  the  harem, 
and  my  alarmed  imagination  evoked  a  lurid 
drama!  Meanwhile,  the  rhythm  of  my  dance  was 
bringing  me  nearer  and  nearer  the  Sultan.  All  at 
once,  an  expression  of  terror  crossed  his  face.  He 
rose  from  his  chair  precipitately,  and  disappeared! 
I  never  saw  him  again! 

The  ladies  of  the  seraglio  surrounded  me  with 
comphments  and  attentions.    Coffee  was  served  in 

149 


MY  LIFE 

delicate  cups  mounted  on  feet  of  gold  and  set  with 
precious  stones.  Curious  sweets  on  golden  plat- 
ters were  presented  by  the  slaves  who,  according 
to  the  etiquette  of  the  Palace,  wore  draperies  of 
crimson  velvet  embroidered  in  gold,  thrown  over 
their  shoulders.  At  a  given  signal,  one  of  the  slaves 
began  the  oriental  "Dance  of  the  Scarf."  She  was 
extraordinarily  graceful,  swirling  and  weaving  the 
flashing  silken  veil  about  her  with  languid,  rhyth- 
mic movements.  Finally,  one  of  the  Sultanas  ap- 
proached me  and  ceremoniously  presented  a  golden 
chalice  of  exquisite  workmanship. 

"From  His  Majesty,  the  Sultan,"  she  explained, 
"who  thanks  you,  and  begs  you  to  pardon  him  for 
not  being  able  to  present  this  cup  himself.  His 
Majesty  is  indisposed,"  she  added,  "and  has  there- 
fore asked  me  to  express  to  you  all  his  admiration 
for  your  beautiful  dance." 

I  left  the  Palace  as  though  returning  from  a 
distant  and  incredible  voyage.  I  felt  that  I  had 
been  bewitched,  carried  away  to  another  world. 
A  few  days  later,  I  told  my  adventures  to  one  of 
my  friends  attached  to  the  Embassy. 

"It  is  the  first  time,"  I  concluded,  laughing,  "that 

150 


THE  SULTAN  OF  TURKEY 

my  Carmen  dance  has  ever  made  any  one  run 
away!" 

"You  probably  approached  too  near  the  Sultan," 
my  friend  answered,  "and  it  alarmed  him.  He  is 
consumed  with  suspicion,  haunted  by  the  fear  of 
murder!" 

"Good  heavens!"  I  exclaimed.  "Afraid  of  my 
castanets,  my  fan?" 

"Ah!"  retorted  the  Frenchman.  "Could  you  not 
have  had  Carmen's  dagger  in  your  garter?" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

CABRIERES 

IT  was  after  my  first  engagement  in  America 
that  I  was  able  to  fulfil  the  dream  of  which  I 
have  already  spoken.  I  went  back  to  Aveyron 
that  year  after  my  fatiguing  winter's  work,  with 
the  idea  in  my  mind  of  buying  a  farm  for  my  father, 
where  he  could  settle  down  and  spend  the  rest  of 
his  life.  I  asked  the  notary  in  our  village  whether 
there  was  any  land  for  sale  in  the  neighbourhood. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "There  is  the  farm  of 
Cabrieres,  but  I  am  afraid  the  castle  goes  with  it. 
You  would  not  want  that,  I  am  sure!" 

The  name  brought  to  my  mind  the  long-forgot- 
ten picture  of  that  sunny  road  and  my  impossible 
vision !  I  asked  to  be  shown  the  castle,  and  we  went 
there  with  my  father.  While  we  were  looking  it 
over,  he  remonstrated  with  me  long  and  patiently. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  "it  is  sheer  folly.  It  is  much 
too  great  an  undertaking  for  you.  The  whole  place 
needs  repairs.    Give  up  this  wild  idea.    You  really 

153 


MY  LIFE 

don't  need  a  castle.     Be  a  good  girl,  and  forget 
your  dream!" 

But  I  am  hard  to  move,  once  my  mind  has  been 
set  upon  an  idea.  I  have  always  done,  within  the 
limits  of  possibility,  what  I  have  wanted  to  do. 
I  went  ahead  without  consulting  my  father,  and 
made  the  necessary  arrangements.  The  following 
Sunday  I  told  him  that  we  were  invited  to  dinner 
with  the  farmers  of  Cabrieres. 

I  put  the  great  key  of  the  postern  gate  at  my 
father's  place;  and  when  he  picked  up  his  napkin, 
it  rolled  out  at  his  feet.  He  was  overcome  with 
surprise  and  ready  to  cry  with  joy.  It  was  one  of 
the  happiest  hours  of  my  life ! 

My  father  lived  there  long  and  happily,  and  there 
I  have  built  my  home,  a  resting  place  and  a  refuge, 
a  nest  to  return  to  after  my  distant  flights.  I 
have  brought  back  to  it  the  riches  of  experience  and 
memory,  the  treasures  of  a  long  and  fortunate 
career.  Some  of  them  are  tangible — furniture,  pic- 
tures, books,  mementos  of  all  kinds.  Others  are 
invisible,  yet  even  more  real — ^the  unforgotten  pres- 
ences of  the  past.  Cabrieres  is  a  necessary  part 
of  my  life.  I  truly  believe  that  the  extraordinary 
preservation  of  my  voice  is  largely  due  to  the  long 

154 


TiiF.    Chatfat    of    Cahkiehks 
Seen    from   the   Hiirlnvav 


CABRIERES 

months  I  spend  in  that  quiet  spot,  far  from  worldly- 
gaieties  and  distractions.  If  I  stay  away  too  long, 
I  become  ill,  like  a  plant  deprived  of  water.  My 
lungs  crave  the  dry,  bracing  air  of  the  mountain 
plains.    I  need  my  country,  my  home! 

There  are  no  trees  in  our  part  of  the  world. 
The  clouds,  the  rocks,  the  vast  stretches  of  upland 
covered  with  heather,  box  or  scrub  pine — this  is  all 
that  can  be  seen.  It  is  not  the  type  of  country  to 
please  those  who  like  pretty  places.  It  is  melan- 
choly, my  poor  Aveyron.  Perhaps  I  love  it  for 
that  very  reason! 

The  spirit  of  the  past  which  permeates  it  makes 
me  calm,  contemplative.  Even  conversation  seems 
out  of  place  there.  How  restful  it  is,  how  reposeful, 
after  the  turmoil  and  constant  agitation  of  America ! 

The  little  castle  of  Cabrieres  dates  from  1050. 
I  have  looked  up  its  history  and  followed  its  for- 
tunes down  the  ages.  An  Englishman  was  killed 
under  its  walls.  It  saw  the  horrors  of  the  religious 
wars  and  was  the  refuge  of  a  certain  group  of 
Knights  Templars. 

The  old  man  from  whom  I  bought  it  rendered 
me,  quite  unconsciously,  an  invaluable  service.  He 
was  fond  of  trees,  and  planted  a  grove  near  the 

155 


MY  LIFE 

chateau.  I  bless  him  from  my  heart,  every  day 
that  I  sit  under  their  welcome  shade !  They  are  the 
only  trees  to  be  found  for  many  miles  around. 

Like  every  castle  with  a  shade  of  self-respect, 
Cabrieres  has  its  ghost.  One  of  the  rooms  is  called 
the  chamber  of  the  phantom,  though  I  shall  have 
to  admit  that  I  myself  have  never  seen  its  spectral 
inhabitant.  The  villagers,  however,  are  quite  con- 
vinced of  its  presence. 

Many  years  ago,  the  story  runs,  an  arrogant 
knight,  one  of  my  predecessors  in  the  castle,  deter- 
mined to  build  a  bridge  which  should  stretch  from 
one  hill  to  the  other.  Every  day  he  built  a  little. 
Every  night  a  wicked  demon  destroyed  his  work. 
The  bridge  was  never  finished,  but  the  unfortunate 
knight,  as  a  punishment  for  his  pride,  was  con- 
demned to  return  year  after  year  to  the  scene  of 
his  failure.  The  peasants  still  see  him  in  his  huge 
hat  and  long  cloak,  stalking  beneath  the  walls  of 
Cabrieres. 

My  real  guests  are  rather  more  to  my  taste  than 
this  poor,  futile  spectre  of  the  bridge.  I  have  had 
many  delightful  visitors  at  Cabrieres,  and  the  pres- 
ence of  my  friends  has  added  greatly  to  my  love  for 
the  place. 

156 


CABRlERES 

One  year — it  was  the  summer  of  1894 — the 
"Cadets  de  Gascogne,"  that  interesting  society  of 
artists,  actors  and  writers,  honoured  me  with  a 
visit  in  the  course  of  its  journey  through  France. 
The  party  included  Monsieur  Leygues,  Minister  of 
the  Beaux  Arts,  Benjamin  Constant,  the  distin- 
guished artist,  Mounet- Sully  of  the  Comedie  Fran- 
9aise,  Gailhard,  director  of  the  Opera,  and  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  Adolphe  Brisson. 

I  can  still  see  Mounet- Sully  declaiming  the 
stanzas  of  the  "Fury  of  Orestes"  from  the  height 
of  the  rocky  platform  that  juts  out  in  front  of  the 
Chateau,  like  the  prow  of  a  ship.  It  is  there,  on 
this  same  platform,  that  I  have  stood  many  times, 
answering  the  songs  of  the  shepherds,  who  on  the 
distant  uplands  watch  their  sheep. 

I  wish  that  I  could  hand  on  to  the  children  of 
to-day  my  own  passionate  love  for  these  old  folk- 
songs of  France.  They  are  the  expression  of  the 
soul  of  the  nation,  tuneful,  lovely,  filled  with  the 
poetry  and  the  lore  of  the  past.  How  much  more 
beautiful  they  are  than  the  inept  refrains  of  the 
music-hall  tunes  of  to-day! 

Not  far  from  Cabrieres,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain,  are  the  famous  Gorges  of  the  Tarn. 

157 


MY  LIFE 

One  of  the  sights  of  this  region  is  the  grotto  of 
Dargilan,  a  huge  labyrinthine  cave  filled  with  stalac- 
tites and  stalagmites. 

One  day  I  visited  the  grotto  with  some  friends. 
We  were  conducted  through  its  wonders  by  a  young 
shepherd,  who  explained  it  all  to  us  in  the  inimitable 
patois  of  his  country.  He  was  only  sixteen,  but 
already  full  of  wisdom. 

"Do  you  like  being  a  shepherd?"  we  asked  him, 
as  we  walked  along.  "Wouldn't  you  prefer  to  be 
a  mechanic  and  travel  over  the  world,  seeing  new 
sights  and  countries?  Don't  you  find  it  rather 
stupid,  at  your  age,  to  stay  in  one  place  all  the 
time?" 

"No,  Madame,"  he  answered,  with  complete  con- 
viction. "I  want  to  be  a  shepherd  all  my  life.  I 
am  happy  to  be  out  there  in  the  pastures,  watching 
the  sheep.  I  think  of  the  Bon  Dieu  and  at  night 
the  stars  are  so  beautiful!" 

We  came  finally  to  a  tremendous  cave.  Its  vast, 
mysterious  depths  fascinated  me.  I  began  to  sing. 
The  boy  started  and  turned  toward  me. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed.  "How  lovely!  If  the  mis- 
tress could  only  hear  you,  she  would  give  you  a  job ! 
You  could  come  every  day  and  sing  for  the  tour- 

158 


CABRIERES 

ists.    I  am  sure  she  would  pay  you  a  lot  of  money 
for  it," 

I  was  duly  impressed. 

"How  much  do  you  think  she  would  pay  me?" 
I  asked. 

"Well,  now,"  he  said  judiciously,  screwing  up  his 
brow  and  scratching  his  head,  "it's  hard  to  say. 
I  think  she  might  go  as  high  as  five  francs  a  day. 
It  would  be  good  business!" 

"I'll  think  it  over,"  I  answered.    "It  is  very  kind 
of  you  to  give  me  the  tip.    But  don't  you  know  me," 
,1  added,  "I  live  over  the  way,  at  Cabrieres?" 

"No,  no,  Madame,"  the  boy  answered.  "I  have 
never  been  as  far  as  that.  Our  church  is  up  there 
on  the  plateau,  and  that  is  as  far  as  I  have 
travelled." 

A  year  later,  I  was  again  visiting  the  grotto. 
The  boy  was  still  there.  He  recognised  me  at  once, 
and  came  toward  me,  twisting  his  cap  in  his  hands, 
apparently  much  embarrassed. 

"Good  morning,  Madame,"  he  mumbled.  "I 
guess  you  had  a  good  laugh  at  me  last  year." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked.  "Why  should 
I  laugh  at  you?" 

159 


MY  LIFE 

"I  was  told  afterward  who  you  were,"  he  an- 
swered. "A  nice  kind  of  a  fool  you  must  have 
thought  me,  with  my  five  francs  a  day!  They  tell 
me  that  in  the  Americas  you  don't  have  to  do  more 
than  yawn  to  earn  eight  pairs  of  oxen!" 


CHAPTER  XX 

TWO  FAMOUS  OPERA  SINGERS 

rriHE  first  opera  singer  to  cast  her  spell  over 
^  my  youthful  heart  was  Adelina  Patti.  What 
a  picture  the  name  evokes!  A  beautiful,  fascinat- 
ing being,  with  a  voice  beyond  compare.  Her 
charm  and  perfection  seemed  to  me  divine,  almost 
miraculous.  I  was  only  sixteen  when,  with  my 
mother,  we  used  to  stand  in  line  for  hours,  in  order 
to  procure  a  modest  seat  in  the  very  topmost  row 
of  the  gallery  at  the  Theatre  des  Italiens.  What 
joy  and  admiration  filled  my  heart  as  I  listened 
to  her  I  She  was  then  at  the  height  of  her  splen- 
dour, bewitching  and  lovely.  As  for  her  voice, 
there  has  never  been  anything  like  it.  One  might 
compare  it  to  a  string  of  luminous  pearls,  perfectly 
matched,  every  jewel  flawless,  identical  in  form  and 
colour. 

She  began  her  career  when  she  was  little  more 
than  a  child.  Her  debut  took  place  in  the  United 
States,  where  she  was  touring  with  her  father  and 
mother.     She  was  sixteen  years  old,  but  she  had 

161 


MY  LIFE 

retained  her  childish  tastes  and  habits.  Her  dolls, 
which  she  adored,  had  to  be  taken  away  from  her, 
in  order  to  force  her  to  pay  attention  to  her  les- 
sons. When  she  had  done  her  work  well,  they 
would  be  returned  to  her,  and  she  would  be  per- 
fectly happy,  playing  with  them  for  the  rest  of 
the  day.  Her  teacher  and  impresario,  Maurice 
Strakosch,  launched  her  in  America  and  later  man- 
aged her  many  opera  and  concert  tours. 

I  was  told  by  an  old  friend  of  hers,  a  conductor 
who  had  worked  with  her  for  many  years,  that  she 
lived  very  much  apart  from  her  colleagues  of  the 
stage.  Once  she  was  asked  her  opinion  of  a  new 
tenor  with  whom  she  had  sung  the  night  before. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  she  answered,  "I  have  no 
idea  what  he  is  like.  I  never  paid  any  attention  to 
him.  He  must  be  good,  for  I  did  not  notice  that 
he  was  bad!" 

When  she  was  asked  with  whom  she  would  like  to 
sing, 

"Engage  any  one  you  like,"  she  would  answer. 
"As  long  as  he  hasn't  a  tremolo  and  sings  in 
tune,  it  makes  no  difference  to  me!" 

Patti  never  attended  the  rehearsals  of  the  operas 
in  which  she  appeared.    She  was  thus  saved  the  wear 

162 


TWO  FAMOUS  OPERA  SINGERS 

and  tear  of  those  fatiguing  ordeals,  and  was  able 
to  preserve,  as  one  of  her  friends  expressed  it,  "the 
velvet  of  her  voice." 

Her  husband,  Monsieur  Nicolini,  told  me,  when 
I  was  visiting  them  in  their  beautiful  chateau  of 
Craig-y-Nos,  that  she  did  not  even  read  on  the  days 
she  was  to  sing. 

"The  delicate  nerves  that  control  the  muscles  of 
the  throat,"  he  explained,  "are  stimulated  into  ac- 
tivity and  cause  an  unconscious  contraction  at  each 
word  read  by  the  eyes." 

I  am  afraid  that  I  myself  do  most  of  my  reading 
on  the  days  I  sing.  It  is  in  those  hours  of  enforced 
repose  that  I  am  able  to  enjoy  my  books. 

Patti  sang  all  the  roles  of  the  Italian  repertoire 
exquisitely.  Her  vocalisation  was  remarkable,  par- 
ticularly in  "The  Barber  of  Seville."  It  is  said  that 
one  day  she  sang  the  aria,  "Una  voce  poco  fa,"  for 
Russini.    The  composer  listened  without  comment. 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  Patti  asked  finally. 

"It's  very  nice,"  answered  the  maestro.  "But 
what  is  it?" 

"Don't  you  recognise  your  own  'Barber?'  "  Patti 
asked  in  astonishment. 

''Your  'Barber,'  you  mean!"  he  retorted.     "It 

163 


MY  LIFE 

is  not  mine  at  all  1    It  is  easy  to  see  that  your  master 
has  Strakoschanised  my  poor  opera!" 

One  day  in  Naples  a  good  many  years  ago,  a 
friend  of  mine  came  to  the  hotel  where  I  was  stay- 
ing, with  a  very  pleasant  invitation. 

"Do  you  want  to  hear  a  true  Italian  voice?"  she 
asked.  "There  is  an  excellent  tenor  singing  at  the 
Fondo  Theatre.  Will  you  go  with  me?  I  think 
you  will  enjoy  it." 

I  accepted  with  alacrity,  and  a  few  hours  later 
I  was  listening  to  this  singer,  whose  name  I  had 
not  even  heard  before.  I  was  overcome  with  aston- 
ishment. 

"What  a  marvellous — what  an  extraordinary — 
voice!"  I  exclaimed.  "I  have  rarely  heard  anything 
so  beautiful.     It  is  a  miracle!" 

"Ah!"  my  friend  answered  proudly.  "In  Naples 
beautiful  voices  are  as  common  as  pebbles  on  the 
beach!" 

"This  is  no  pebble!"  I  cried.  "This  is  a  diamond 
of  the  first  water!" 

At  the  end  of  the  opera  I  turned  to  my  friend. 

"Tell  me  again,"  I  asked,  "the  name  of  this  re- 
markable artist!" 

"Caruso!" 

164. 


TWO  FAMOUS  OPERA  SINGERS 

Ah,  that  divine,  that  admirable,  that  unique 
voice!  Force  of  nature  moulded  by  an  exquisite  art! 
Profound,  moving,  joyous,  a  voice  of  sunlight  com- 
pound of  all  the  prismatic  colours!  But  what  can 
I  say  that  has  not  already  been  said  of  that  great 
singer  whose  untimely  death  is  mourned  by  the 
vast  army  of  his  friends  and  followers? 

Caruso's  heart  was  as  great  as  his  genius,  as  every 
one  knows  who  had  the  pleasure  of  associating  with 
him.  I  remember  very  vividly  an  incident  that  illus- 
trates his  extraordinary  kindness  and  the  generosity 
with  which  he  expended  his  talent.  It  was  years 
after  my  first  introduction  to  him  in  Naples.  We 
were  both  in  London  at  the  time  and  were  engaged 
to  sing  at  a  concert  given  in  the  home  of  a  lady 
who  lived  at  Wimbledon  outside  of  London.  As 
we  journeyed  out  to  Wimbledon  together  I  no- 
ticed that  Caruso  looked  worried  and  preoccupied. 

"What  is  the  matter,"  I  asked.  "Why  do  you 
look  so  sad,  so  depressed?" 

"Oh,  Calve!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  am  very  un- 
happy! Your  motto  which  proclaims  that  he  who 
sings  enchants  his  sorrow  is  entirely  untrue.  I 
sing  all  the  time,  but  it  does  not  drive  away  my 
trouble.    On  the  contrary,  it  only  makes  it  worse!" 

165 


MY  LIFE 

"But  you  enchant  the  public,  my  poor  friend!" 
I  answered.  "And  that  should  bring  you  some  con- 
solation I" 

When  we  reached  our  destination,  we  found  that 
we  were  a  little  early,  and  we  had  time  to  talk  to 
our  hostess  and  to  make  inquiries  concerning  the 
health  of  her  son.  We  knew  that  this  young  man 
was  an  invalid,  living  in  a  secluded  corner  of  the 
great  park  of  the  estate,  where  a  pavilion  had 
been  built  for  his  special  use.  Our  hostess  told  us 
that  he  had  sent  his  greetings  and  his  regrets  that 
he  could  not  be  present  at  the  concert.  She  added 
that  he  had  been  particularly  distressed  at  not  being 
able  to  hear  us  sing,  for  he  was  passionately  fond 
of  music  and  now,  in  his  invalided  condition  he  was 
entirely  deprived  of  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  of 
his  life. 

Caruso  looked  at  me  and  I  read  his  thoughts. 

"Yes,  yes!"  I  exclaimed.  "Let  us  go  and  sing 
for  the  poor  boy  before  the  guests  arrive!" 

Our  hostess  was  dehghted  and  led  the  way  to 
the  pavilion  where  her  son  lived.  As  we  walked 
through  the  gardens  Caruso  turned  to  me. 

"I  know  you  are  tired  and  so  am  I,  terribly 
tired,  but  it  can't  be  helped!    We  will  sing  just  a 

166 


TWO  FAMOUS  OPERA  SINGERS 

little  for  the  poor  fellow — a  song  or  two  apiece.  It 
will  not  hurt  us!" 

We  were,  indeed,  both  very  weary.  Caruso  was 
in  the  midst  of  his  Covent  Garden  season,  singing 
as  often  as  three  or  four  times  a  week.  He  was 
tremendously  popular  and  in  constant  demand.  I 
myself  had  just  finished  a  long  concert  tour  and 
was  fairly  exhausted. 

But  for  us,  poor  artists,  there  is  no  halting  by 
the  way!  Are  we  not  required,  at  a  specified  hour 
and  moment,  to  give  of  ourselves,  no  matter  what 
the  cost?  Well  or  ill,  happy  or  in  despair  we  must 
be  ready  to  distribute  joy  to  others.  Though  our 
own  hearts  may  be  breaking,  we  must  give  happi- 
ness to  those  who  hear  us,  we  must  cast  the  spell 
of  lovely  dreams  over  our  listeners,  we  must  give 
them  the  pleasure,  the  emotion,  the  exaltation  that 
makes  them  forget  the  sorrows  and  anxieties  of 
mundane  things  and  dwell  for  a  little  while  in  a 
happier  world. 

When  we  reached  the  pavilion  and  stood  beside 
that  bed  of  pain,  Caruso  put  aside  his  own  pre- 
occupations and  fatigues  as  though  they  were  a 
useless  garment,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  task 
of  bringing  a  little  light  into  that  worn,  pathetic 

167 


MY  LIFE 

face.  What  a  magnificent  concert  he  gave  the  poor 
boy!  Neapolitan  songs,  arias  from  his  most  pop- 
ular operas,  ballads,  songs,  everything  that  came 
into  his  head. 

"Encore,  encore  I"  begged  the  sick  boy's  ecstatic 
eyes. 

I  took  up  the  task,  singing  my  French  and  Span- 
ish songs,  all  the  gay  and  tender  tunes  I  could 
remember. 

"Encore,  encore!"  whispered  that  eager,  broken 
voice. 

I  began  my  Carmen  dance,  and  Caruso,  appre- 
ciating how  tired  I  was,  came  to  my  assistance. 
His  golden  voice  took  up  the  air  of  the  dance. 
With  snapping  fingers  and  beating  foot,  he  imitated 
the  sound  of  the  castanets,  he  twanged  an  imaginary 
guitar.  He  was  a  host  in  himself,  a  whole  orches- 
tral accompaniment  in  one  person! 

The  invalid  was  beside  himself  with  joy.  For- 
getting his  suffering  and  pain,  he  urged  us  on  with 
exclamations  of  delight  and  appreciation.  We  con- 
tinued our  impromtu  programme,  until  our  hostess, 
who  had  returned  to  the  house  after  escorting  us 
to  the  pavilion,  reappeared  on  the  scene  in  much 
agitation. 

168 


TWO  FAMOUS  OPERA  SINGERS 

"The  guests  have  all  arrived!"  she  exclaimed. 
"The  drawing  room  is  crowded  and  every  one  is 
wondering  what  has  happened  to  you.  They  have 
been  waiting  more  than  an  hour  and  are  becoming 
impatient  1" 

"Bah!"  exclaimed  Caruso  with  a  laugh.  "It  will 
not  hurt  them  to  wait  a  little !  Look  at  your  son's 
happy  face.  Isn't  it  more  worth  while  to  sing  for 
him  than  for  all  the  others  put  together?" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ARTISTS  AND  FRIENDS 

GENIUS  might  well  be  called  the  expression 
of  a  superhuman  energy.  This  definition  can 
be  applied  with  peculiar  appropriateness  to  the 
great  Sarah  Bernhardt  who  has  given,  for  so  many 
years,  an  example  of  prodigious  and  unflagging 
activity. 

Braving  illness  and  age,  overcoming  physical 
handicaps  and  constant  anxieties,  she  has  continued 
year  after  year  her  tremendous  world-wide  tours, 
teaching  the  nations  of  the  earth  to  admire  and 
applaud  the  dramatic  art  of  France.  She  might 
indeed  with  justice  be  called  the  High  Priestess  of 
that  art,  for  she  has  probably  done  more  than  any 
one  person  to  carry  its  message  to  many  lands 
and  people.  Her  vital  flame  seems  to  be  unquench- 
able. She  is  astonishingly  resilient,  ever  ready  for 
new  undertakings  and  enterprises.  No  detail  is 
too  small  for  her  attention,  just  as  no  effort  is  too 
great  to  obtain  her  ends. 

Not  long  ago  I  had  the  pleasure  of  taking  a 

171 


MY  LIFE 

group  of  young  friends  and  pupils  to  see  the  great 
actress,  who  was  at  the  moment  playing  at  Mont- 
pellier,  which  is  the  largest  city  within  motoring 
distance  of  Cabrieres.  I  was  anxious  that  they 
should  see  this  remarkable  exponent  of  the  dra- 
matic art,  for  they  were  all,  in  one  way  or  another, 
aspirants  to  the  lyric  or  the  spoken  stage.  We  sat 
spellbound  through  the  performance,  forgetting 
time  and  place,  enthralled  by  her  art. 

When  the  play  was  over,  we,  the  audience,  were 
actually  exhausted  by  the  intensity  of  feeling  which 
the  great  artist  had  made  us  share  with  her.  How 
much  more  weary  must  she  herself  have  been  by 
the  tremendous  outpouring  of  vital  energy  that 
the  role  required!  I  was  reluctant  to  disturb  her, 
but  my  importunate  young  friends  insisted  that 
they  must  pay  their  homage  to  the  incomparable 
actress. 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  I  answered,  "but  I  fear  she 
will  be  too  tired!" 

I  made  my  way  behind  the  scenes  and  was  re- 
ceived most  cordially  in  the  artist's  dressing  room. 
At  the  first  glance  I  saw  that  she  was  indeed  worn 
out  by  the  exhausting  performance  she  had  just 
completed. 

172 


ARTISTS  AND  FRIENDS 

"I  came  to  plead  for  some  young  friends  of 
mine,"  I  explained,  after  we  had  exchanged  the 
usual  greetings.  "They  long  to  see  you  and  lay 
at  your  feet  the  tribute  of  their  enthusiastic  appre- 
ciation. But  I  fear  that  this  is  not  an  opportune 
moment." 

"No,  no,  Calve,  I  am  too  tired,"  she  answered  in 
a  weary  voice.  "Indeed  I  cannot  make  another 
effort — I  cannot  do  anything  morel" 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  her  whole  being  drooped 
in  a  complete  abandonment  of  fatigue.  I  rose  to 
go  immediately. 

"They  will  be  disappointed,"  I  said.  "But  it 
does  not  matter.  They  will  always  remember  the 
marvellous  experience  you  have  given  them  to-day, 
and  I  can  at  any  rate  thank  you  in  their  name." 

As  I  turned  toward  the  door,  that  magic  voice, 
which  has  held  so  many  thousands  under  its  golden 
enchantment,  stopped  me. 

"Let  them  come!"  Bernhardt  exclaimed,  "I  will 
receive  them!  But  not  here.  At  the  hotel  where 
I  am  staying.     I  will  go  there  immediately!" 

I  returned  with  my  good  news  to  the  band  of 
expectant  youngsters.  We  were  soon  in  the  foyer 
of  the  hotel  awaiting  the  promised  arrival.     The 

173 


MY  LIFE 

doors  flew  open,  the  place  was  suddenly  filled  with 
a  vivid  presence.  Was  this  the  worn,  exhausted 
woman  I  had  left  a  few  minutes  before  in  the  dress- 
ing room  of  the  theatre?  The  transformation  was 
complete.  Charming,  vivacious,  scintillating,  she 
swept  up  to  us.  She  had  a  brilliant  smile  for  each 
of  my  young  friends,  a  laughing  word,  greetings 
and  compliments  were  exchanged.  Then  she  was 
gone  again,  leaving  in  those  young  hearts  a  vision 
of  eternal  youth,  a  fascinating  and  indelible  impres- 
sion of  the  Divine  Sarah. 

Among  my  many  colleagues  and  fellow  workers 
in  the  operatic  world,  the  memory  of  Elena  Sanz 
remains  particularly  dear  to  me.  She  was  a  singer 
of  rare  talent,  beautiful  and  lovable.  She  had  an 
unusual  voice,  and  we  used  often  to  sing  Spanish 
duets  together  for  the  amusement  of  our  friends. 

One  day  it  occurred  to  us  to  try  our  luck  in  true 
Bohemian  fashion.  We  disguised  ourselves  as  wan- 
dering ballad  singers  and  went  out  into  the  streets 
of  Paris,  to  see  whether  we  could  not  earn  some 
pennies  for  the  poor.  We  were  both  young — and 
not  ugly!  Guitar  in  hand,  scarf  on  head,  off  we 
went  in  search  of  adventure. 

174 


ARTISTS  AND  FRIENDS 

We  started  on  the  Champs  ifilysees  itself  and 
asked  the  first  concierge,  sitting  like  a  guardian 
dragon  in  her  lodge,  for  permission  to  sing  in  the 
court  of  her  house.  We  were  refused  I  Again  we 
tried,  with  no  better  result.  They  all  turned  us 
away. 

Undaunted,  we  continued  until  we  found  a  Cer- 
berus more  gentle  than  the  others,  who  acceded 
to  our  entreaties.  We  were  allowed  to  go  into  the 
court,  and  there  we  began  our  song.  We  threw 
ourselves  into  it,  with  all  our  hearts,  our  voices,  our 
talent.  It  was  a  duet  which  our  friends  admired 
particularly,  and  we  sang  it  as  well  as  we  knew 
how.  Suddenly  a  window  on  the  ground  floor  was 
thrown  open. 

"How  long  is  this  howling  going  to  continue?" 
a  furious  voice  shouted  from  the  depths  of  a  dark- 
ened room.  *'Who  are  these  witches,  destroying 
my  peace  with  their  hideous  voices  and  false  notes? 
Concierge!"  the  man  called  at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 
"Concierge!    Turn  these  women  out!" 

We  fled  precipitately.  Once  in  the  street,  we  did 
not  know  wliether  to  laugh  or  cry. 

"Do  you  really  think  we  sang  out  of  tune  ?"  Elena 
asked,  ruefully. 

175 


MY  LIFE 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  in  equal  dejection. 
"It's  dreadful.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  neither  voice 
nor  talent.    Let's  go  home !" 

We  walked  along  silently  for  a  few  minutes. 

"I  know  what  we'll  do  I"  exclaimed  Elena  sud- 
denly. "We'll  accept  that  invitation  to  the  Spanish 
Embassy,  which  we  had  thought  of  refusing! 
Come!  Hurry!  We'll  dress  in  our  best,  and  see 
whether  they  like  us  or  not!" 

Late  that  evening,  surrounded  by  an  enthusi- 
astic group  of  friends  and  acquaintances,  who  were 
complimenting  us  on  our  performance,  we  had  the 
courage  to  tell  our  sad  tale! 

"How  extraordinary!"  exclaimed  one  of  the 
guests.  "That  is  the  very  story  Monsieur  X  was 
just  telling  me!" 

She  turned  to  the  man  who  was  standing  beside 
her,  and  added,  "Now  you  see  who  it  was  you 
chased  away!" 

Every  one  in  the  room  burst  into  laughter,  except 
the  poor  man  himself,  who  was  overcome  with  con- 
fusion. 

It  does  not  always  pay  to  be  too  realistic!  I  re- 
member that  I  nearly  killed  a  colleague  of  mine  in 

176 


ARTISTS  AND  FRIENDS 

an  attempt  to  follow  his  directions  literally.  He 
was  an  artist  of  talent,  a  tenor  named  Devoyood. 
He  interpreted  the  role  of  Valentine  in  "Faust," 
when  I  was  singing  Marguerite.  In  the  duel  scene, 
he  was  supposed  to  be  killed  by  the  sword  of 
Mephistopheles.  He  asked  me  to  come  to  him  after 
he  had  fallen,  and  to  pick  up  his  head  between  my 
hands.  I  was  then  to  let  it  fall  to  the  ground,  to 
show  that  he  was  quite  dead. 

"It  must  go  *pouf  I' "  he  added,  by  way  of 
emphasis. 

"But  it  will  hurt  you!"  I  protested. 

"No,  no !"  he  answered.  "Go  to  it !  I  want  to  get 
the  effect!" 

On  the  opening  night  I  did  as  I  was  told,  but 
I  miscalculated  the  distance.  His  head  fell  to  the 
floor  with  a  dreadful  thud ! 

"You  have  killed  me!"  roared  the  dead  man,  in 
heart-breaking  accents. 

I  was  overcome  with  laughter,  and  was  scarcely 
able  to  make  my  exit  with  proper  dignity.  The 
following  day,  the  newspapers  commented  most 
favourably  on  this  scene.  They  thought  the 
effect  studied,  and  we  had  to  repeat  it  night 
after  night.      My  first  mistake,  however,  taught 

177 


MY  LIFE 

me  to  calculate  the  distance  with  greater  care! 

My  experiences  have  not  always  had  as  amusing 
a  denouement  as  this.  One  cannot  spend  a  lifetime 
on  the  stage  without  occasionally  encountering  an- 
noying individuals  and  distressing  experiences. 
Like  the  rest  of  the  world,  there  are  all  sorts  of 
singers  and  actors,  and  once  in  a  while  a  comrade 
will  take  pleasure  in  teasing  or  vexing  his  fellow 
artists  right  in  the  midst  of  a  performance.  Often 
this  sort  of  fooling  on  the  stage  is  merely  the  ex- 
uberance of  high  spirits.  Sometimes,  however,  it  is 
actuated  by  less  admirable  motives.  On  the  whole, 
I  have  encountered  few  mean  and  malicious  spirits 
among  my  theatrical  friends.  One  incident  stands 
out  in  my  mind  as  an  exception  which  proves  this 
rule. 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  one  of  my  tours  outside 
of  France.  I  was  appearing  in  "Carmen"  with  a 
group  of  foreign  singers  whom  I  had  never  known 
before.  As  I  was  a  visiting  artist,  engaged  for  one 
or  two  performances  only,  the  company  had  re- 
hearsed the  opera  before  I  came,  and  was  practi- 
cally ready  for  the  performance.  When  I  arrived 
I  went  to  one  rehearsal  only — the  dress  rehearsal — 
on  the  day  before  the  first  night.    We  went  through 

178 


ARTISTS  AND  FRIENDS 

the  entire  opera  in  order  to  arrange  the  necessary 
stage  business  in  relation  to  my  part.  In  the  last 
act  we  rehearsed,  with  particular  care,  the  scene 
in  which  Carmen  is  killed,  and  I  explained  to  the 
tenor,  who  was  singing  the  role  of  Don  Jose  for 
the  first  time,  exactly  how  to  carry  out  the  action 
of  this  very  dramatic  and  violent  scene.  All  the 
details  were  clearly  understood  between  us,  and 
agreed  upon  to  what  I  thought  was  our  mutual 
satisfaction. 

On  the  night  of  the  performance  all  went  well 
and  smoothly  until  the  last  act,  though  I  will  admit 
that  I  found  the  company,  particularly  Don  Jose, 
•ather  wooden  and  unresponsive !  The  performance 
was  being  cordially  received,  however,  and  I  sus- 
pected nothing  until  I  found  myself  on  the  stage 
alone  with  the  tenor  in  the  last  act.  Just  as  the 
scene  was  rising  to  its  climax  and  Don  Jose  is 
supposed  to  pursue  Carmen  across  the  square  and 
kill  her,  my  partner  planted  himself  squarely  in  the 
middle  of  the  stage  with  his  back  to  the  audience. 

"Now,"  he  exclaimed  between  his  teeth,  "you 
can  do  what  you  please!  I'm  not  going  to  run 
around  the  stage  after  you!" 

Imagine   my   stupefaction!     The   audience,    of 

179 


MY  LIFE 

course,  could  not  hear  him,  nor  see  his  malevolent 
and  jeering  expression.  On  the  other  hand,  my 
face  was  clearly  visible,  and  I  had  to  control  my 
features  and  carry  on  the  part  as  though  nothing 
had  happened  to  break  the  thread  of  the  action. 
What  a  dilemma!  How  was  I  to  finish  the  scene  if 
he  did  not  do  his  part?  Only  a  few  bars  of  music 
remained  before  Don  Jose  must  kill  Carmen,  or 
the  whole  performance  would  be  ruined.  For  an 
angry  moment  I  was  ready  to  drop  the  whole  busi- 
ness and  walk  off  the  stage,  but  I  realised  almost 
simultaneously  that  this  was  exactly  what  my  kind 
partner  of  the  evening  wished  me  to  do.  He  hoped 
to  create  a  scandal  which  would  react  disastrously 
on  me.  I  was  a  stranger,  an  outsider,  and  could 
easily  be  made  the  scapegoat.  It  was  cleverly 
planned,  for  no  one  was  on  the  stage  to  hear  his 
words  or  see  what  he  was  doing.  Anything  that 
happened  would,  of  course,  be  considered  my  fault. 
All  this  flashed  through  my  mind  in  a  few  seconds, 
as  I  continued  my  part  and  tried  frantically  to 
think  of  a  new  bit  of  stage  business  that  would  fit 
the  unprecedented  situation.  I  managed  somehow 
to  hit  upon  a  method  of  getting  killed  by  this  stolid 
Don  Jose,  whirling  up  to  him  as  though  in  mocking 

180 


ARTISTS  AND  FRIENDS 

defiance,  and  pretending  to  be  wounded  by  the 
dagger  he  held  in  his  hand.  It  all  happened  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  the  curtain  came  down  on 
a  properly  murdered  Carmen  and  a  not  at  all 
repentant  Don  Jose!  No  one  had  apparently  no- 
ticed the  hitch  in  the  action,  and  the  evening  was 
a  complete  success.  How  furious  must  my  dis- 
comforted friend  have  been  as  we  took  curtain  after 
curtain  together  and  he  was  forced  to  realise  by  the 
storms  of  applause  with  which  the  house  greeted 
me,  the  complete  failure  of  his  well-laid  plan  I 

Sometimes  a  conversational  aside  on  the  stage 
is  very  helpful,  when  it  is  not  actuated  by  the 
motives  which  led  this  tenor  to  try  to  wreck  my 
performance.  I  remember  one  evening  when  the 
situation  was  saved  by  a  great  many  whispered  re- 
marks exchanged  between  myself  and  my  partner 
through  the  main  love  scene.  The  opera  in  which 
we  were  appearing  had  never  been  sung  before.  It 
was  put  on  as  a  novelty  in  the  middle  of  the  season 
and  had  been  in  rehearsal  only  a  short  time.  Un- 
fortunately the  tenor  had  been  absent  from  a  num- 
ber of  these  rehearsals  and  was,  in  consequence, 
unfamiliar  with  his  part.  To  add  to  the  confusion, 
we  had  never  had  a  dress  rehearsal,  or  a  rehearsal 

181 


MY  LIFE 

with  the  scenery  in  place.  By  some  combination 
of  accidents,  the  artists,  the  properties,  and  the  set- 
ting had  never  been  on  the  stage  simultaneously, 
so  that  when  we  walked  on  that  first  night,  the 
scene  was  as  new  to  us  as  to  the  audience !  During 
such  rehearsals  as  we  had  had,  the  stage  manager 
had  indicated  to  us  where  we  would  find  the  vari- 
ous pieces  of  furniture  necessary  for  the  action — 
a  bench  on  one  side  where  we  were  to  sit,  a  column 
at  another  point,  a  flight  of  steps  here,  a  tree  there. 
We  had  planned  our  scene  in  accordance  with  these 
indications  and  by  following  the  directions  in  the 
text  of  the  opera.  What  was  our  consternation 
when  we  found  ourselves  before  the  foothghts, 
launched  upon  the  love  duet  with  not  a  single  prop- 
erty in  the  place  where  we  had  been  told  to  expect 
it.  Instead  of  bench,  column,  steps  and  tree,  we 
found  ourselves  on  a  terrace  outside  a  castle  with- 
out a  single  object  to  diversify  the  scene!  Yet  we 
could  not  stand  there  like  graven  images  warbling 
at  each  other  in  the  middle  of  the  stage.  There 
must  be  some  action,  some  movement.  Something 
must  be  done  instantly! 

"Go  over  and  lean  against  the  parapet,"  I  mur- 

182 


ARTISTS  AND  FRIENDS 

mured  to  the  bewildered  tenor  between  the  phrases 
of  my  song. 

"Kneel  at  my  feet,"  I  sang  a  little  later,  running 
the  words  into  the  text  so  as  not  to  interrupt  the 
flow  of  our  duet. 

"Get  up  and  stand  beside  me  while  I  sit  on  the 
balustrade,"  came  my  next  stage  aside. 

"Now  take  me  in  your  arms,"  I  interpolated  into 
my  ditty,  being  careful  to  sing  the  right  notes,  but 
blurring  my  enunciation  so  only  my  partner  could 
catch  the  words.  So  through  the  whole  scene,  by 
whispered  words  and  phrases  sung  in  this  way,  we 
managed  to  get  through  the  scene  with  a  happy 
semblance  of  ease  and  naturalness! 

When  the  curtain  came  down  on  our  final  em- 
brace, we  could  not  help  bursting  into  laughter; 
and  while  my  partner  congratulated  me  on  my  re- 
source in  stage  directions,  I  complimented  him 
even  more  heartily  in  having  so  successfully  heard 
and  followed  my  suggestions. 

Such  accidents  as  this  have  often  made  me  wonder 
how  Patti  and  other  singers,  who,  like  herself,  have 
had  the  courage  to  refuse  to  fatigue  themselves 
with  rehearsals,  have  been  able  to  obtain  the  neces- 
sary dramatic  effects  which  the  interpretation  of 

183 


MY  LIFE 

all  the  leading  roles  in  opera  require.  Rehearsals 
are  exceedingly  tiring  and  exhausting,  yet  it  would 
seem  to  me  almost  impossible  to  get  on  without 
them.  Patti  very  rarely  went  to  them  and  Madame 
Alboni  also  avoided  them  as  much  as  possible. 

I  met  Madame  Alboni  when  she  was  seventy 
years  old.  She  was  as  splendid  as  ever,  singing 
with  as  noble  and  beautiful  an  organ  as  in  her 
youth.  She  had  an  admirable  contralto  voice  and 
vocalised  like  a  bird.  She  sang  Rossini's  "Aria  de 
la  Cenerentola"  for  us,  and  when  I  congratulated 
her  afterwards  on  the  remarkable  preservation  of 
her  voice,  she  spoke  of  this  very  matter  of  rehearsals. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  said,  "they  tire  you  too 
much  nowadays,  with  these  ordeals.  In  my  youth 
I  very  rarely  attended  rehearsals  and  it  saved  me 
much  wear  and  tear.  Remember  this,"  she  added 
with  a  smile,  touching  her  throat  with  the  tips  of 
her  fingers,  "what  comes  out  here  never  goes  in 
again.    Don't  let  them  work  you  to  death !" 

It  was  of  this  charming  woman  who  was  large,  and, 
it  must  be  admitted,  inclined  to  embonpoint,  that  the 
witty  and  occasionally  sharp-tongued  Princess  de 
Metternich  spoke  when  she  described  a  singer  who 
"looked  like  a  cowthat  had  swallowed  a  nightingale !" 

184 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  MONK  OF  THE  ORDER  OF  THE  VEDANTAS 

TT  has  been  my  good  fortune  and  my  joy  to 
^  know  a  man  who  truly  "walked  with  God,"  a 
noble  being,  a  saint,  a  philosopher,  and  a  true  friend. 
His  influence  upon  my  spiritual  life  was  profound. 
He  opened  up  new  horizons  before  me,  enlarging 
and  vivifying  my  religious  ideas  and  ideals,  teach- 
ing me  a  broader  understanding  of  truth.  My  soul 
will  bear  him  an  eternal  gratitude. 

This  extraordinary  man  was  a  Hindu  monk  of 
the  order  of  the  Vedantas.  He  was  called  the 
Swami  Vivi  Kananda,  and  was  widely  known  in 
America  for  his  religious  teachings.  He  was  lec- 
turing in  Chicago  one  year  when  I  was  there;  and 
as  I  was  at  that  time  greatly  depressed  in  mind 
and  body,  I  decided  to  go  to  him,  having  seen  how 
greatly  he  had  helped  some  of  my  friends. 

An  appointment  was  arranged  for  me,  and  when 
I  arrived  at  his  house  I  was  immediately  ushered 
into  his  study.    Before  going,  I  had  been  told  not 

185 


MY  LIFE 

to  speak  until  he  addressed  me.  When  I  entered 
the  room,  therefore,  I  stood  before  him  in  silence 
for  a  moment.  He  was  seated  in  a  noble  attitude 
of  meditation,  his  robe  of  saffron  yellow  falling  in 
straight  lines  to  the  floor,  his  head,  swathed  in  a 
turban,  bent  forward,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 
After  a  brief  pause,  he  spoke  without  looking  up. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  "what  a  troubled  atmosphere 
you  have  about  you!     Be  calm!    It  is  essential  I" 

Then  in  a  quiet  voice,  untroubled  and  aloof,  this 
man,  who  did  not  even  know  my  name,  talked  to  me 
of  my  secret  problems  and  anxieties.  He  spoke 
of  things  that  I  thought  were  unknown  even  to  my 
nearest  friends.  It  seemed  miraculous,  super- 
natural! 

"How  do  you  know  all  this?"  I  asked  at  last. 
"Who  has  talked  of  me  to  you?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  his  quiet  smile,  as  though 
I  were  a  child  who  had  asked  a  foolish  question. 

"No  one  has  talked  to  me,"  he  answered  gently. 
"Do  you  think  that  is  necessary?  I  read  in  you 
as  in  an  open  book." 

Finally  it  was  time  for  me  to  leave. 

"You  must  forget — "  he  said,  as  I  rose.  "Become 
gay  and  happy  again.    Build  up  your  health.    Do 

186 


ORDER  OF  THE  VEDANTAS 

not  dwell  in  silence  upon  your  sorrows.  Trans- 
mute your  emotions  into  some  form  of  external  ex- 
pression. Your  spiritual  health  requires  it.  Your 
art  demands  it!" 

I  left  him,  deeply  impressed  by  his  words  and  his 
personality.  He  seemed  to  have  emptied  my  brain 
of  all  its  feverish  complexities,  and  placed  there  in- 
stead his  clear  and  calming  thoughts. 

I  became  once  again  vivacious  and  cheerful, 
thanks  to  the  effect  of  his  powerful  will.  He  did 
not  use  any  of  the  ordinary  hypnotic  or  mesmeric 
influences.  It  was  the  strength  of  his  character, 
the  purity  and  intensity  of  his  purpose,  that  carried 
conviction.  It  seemed  to  me,  when  I  came  to  know 
him  better,  that  he  lulled  one's  chaotic  thoughts 
into  a  state  of  peaceful  quiescence,  so  that  one 
could  give  complete  and  undivided  attention  to  his 
words. 

He  often  spoke  in  parables,  answering  our  ques- 
tions or  making  his  point  clear  by  means  of  a 
poetic  analogy.  One  day  we  were  discussing  im- 
mortality and  the  survival  of  individual  character- 
istics. He  was  expounding  his  belief  in  reincarna- 
tion, which  was  a  fundamental  part  of  his  teaching. 

"I  cannot  bear  the  idea!"  I  exclaimed.    "I  chng 

187 


MY  LIFE 

to  my  individuality,  unimportant  as  it  may  be  I  I 
don't  want  to  be  absorbed  into  an  Eternal  Unity  I 
The  mere  thought  is  terrible  to  me!" 

"One  day  a  drop  of  water  fell  into  the  vast 
ocean,"  the  Swami  answered.  "When  it  found  it- 
self there,  it  began  to  weep  and  complain,  just  as 
you  are  doing.  The  great  ocean  laughed  at  the 
drop  of  water.  'Why  do  you  weep?'  it  asked.  'I 
do  not  understand.  When  you  join  me,  you  join 
all  your  brothers  and  sisters,  the  other  drops  of 
water  of  which  I  am  made.  You  become  the  ocean 
itself!  If  you  wish  to  leave  me,  you  have  only  to 
rise  up  on  a  sunbeam  into  the  clouds.  From  there 
you  can  descend  again,  little  drop  of  water,  a  bless- 
ing and  a  benediction  to  the  thirsty  earth.'  " 

With  the  Swami  and  some  of  his  friends  and  fol- 
lowers, I  went  upon  a  most  remarkable  trip, 
through  Turkey,  Egypt  and  Greece.  Our  party 
included  the  Swami,  Father  Hj^acinthe  Loyson,  his 
wife,  a  Bostonian,  Miss  McL.  of  Chicago,  ardent 
Swamist  and  charming,  enthusiastic  woman,  and 
myself,  the  song  bird  of  the  troupe. 

What  a  pilgrimage  it  was!  Science,  philosophy 
and  history  had  no  secrets  from  the  Swami.    I  lis- 

188 


ORDER  OF  THE  VEDANTAS 

tened  with  all  my  ears  to  the  wise  and  learned  dis- 
course that  went  on  around  me.  I  did  not  attempt 
to  join  in  their  arguments,  but  I  sang  on  all  occa- 
sions, as  is  my  custom.  The  Swami  would  discuss 
all  sorts  of  questions  with  Father  Loyson,  who  was 
a  scholar  and  a  theologian  of  repute.  It  was  inter- 
esting to  see  that  the  Swami  was  able  to  give  the 
exact  text  of  a  document,  the  date  of  a  church  coun- 
cil, when  Father  Loyson  himself  was  not  certain. 

"Where  did  you  acquire  all  this  information?" 
we  asked  him  one  day. 

*'In  the  Upanishads,"  he  answered.  "This  book, 
the  Book  of  the  Vedas,  has  been  written  by  our 
monks,  generation  after  generation,  for  the  last  ten 
thousand  years.  Each  Swami  of  our  order  writes 
the  history  of  his  life,  setting  down  everything  he 
knows,  his  experiences,  his  studies,  his  scientific  ex- 
periments. After  his  death,  the  book  is  read  and 
corrected  by  the  wisest  men  among  us.  All  repeti- 
tions and  uninteresting  material  are  eliminated. 
Sometimes  one  line  of  a  man's  book  is  kept,  some- 
times a  page.  Once  in  a  while,  though  very  rarely, 
a  whole  book  remains  and  is  incorporated  into  the 
Upanishads.    We  have,  in  consequence,  an  extraor- 

189 


MY  LIFE 

dinary  library,  which  probably  cannot  be  equalled 
anywhere  in  the  world.  Everything  that  I  know 
comes  from  there." 

When  we  were  in  Greece,  we  visited  Eleusis. 
He  explained  its  mysteries  to  us,  and  led  us  from 
altar  to  altar,  from  temple  to  temple,  describing 
the  processions  that  were  held  in  each  place,  inton- 
ing the  ancient  prayers,  showing  us  the  priestly 
rites. 

Later,  in  Egypt,  one  unforgettable  night,  he  led 
us  again  into  the  past,  speaking  to  us  in  mystic, 
moving  words,  under  the  shadow  of  the  silent 
Sphinx. 

The  Swami  was  always  absorbingly  interesting, 
even  under  ordinary  conditions.  He  fascinated  his 
hearers  with  his  magic  tongue.  Again  and  again, 
we  would  miss  our  train,  sitting  calmly  in  a  station 
waiting  room,  enthralled  by  his  discourse  and  quite 
oblivious  to  the  lapse  of  time.  Even  Miss  McL., 
the  most  sensible  among  us,  would  forget  the  hour, 
and  we  would  in  consequence  find  ourselves 
stranded  far  from  our  destination,  at  the  most  in- 
convenient times  and  places! 

One  day  we  lost  our  way  in  Cairo.  I  suppose 
we  had  been  talking  too  intently!    At  any  rate,  we 

190 


ORDER  OF  THE  VEDANTAS 

found  ourselves  in  a  squalid,  ill-smelling  street, 
where  half-clad  women  lolled  from  windows  and 
sprawled  on  doorsteps. 

The  Swami  noticed  nothing  until  a  particularly 
noisy  group  of  women  on  a  bench  in  the  shadow  of 
a  dilapidated  building  began  laughing  and  calhng 
to  him.  One  of  the  ladies  of  our  party  tried  to 
hurry  us  along,  but  the  Swami  detached  himself 
gently  from  our  group  and  approached  the  women 
on  the  bench. 

"Poor  children!"  he  said.  "Poor  creatures! 
They  have  put  their  divinity  in  their  beauty.  Look 
at  them  now!" 

He  began  to  weep,  as  Jesus  might  have  done  be- 
fore the  woman  taken  in  adultery. 

The  women  were  silenced  and  abashed.  One  of 
them  leaned  forward  and  kissed  the  hem  of  his 
robe,  murmuring  brokenly  in  Spanish,  "Homhre  de 
dios,  hovihre  de  dios!"  (Man  of  God!)  The  other, 
with  a  sudden  gesture  of  modesty  and  fear,  threw 
her  arm  in  front  of  her  face,  as  though  she  would 
screen  her  shrinking  soul  from  those  pure  eyes. 

This  marvellous  journey  proved  to  be  almost  the 
last  occasion  on  which  I  was  to  see  the  Swami. 
Shortly  afterward  he  announced  that  he  was  to  re- 

191 


MY  LIFE 

turn  to  his  own  country.  He  felt  that  his  end  was 
approaching,  and  he  wished  to  go  back  to  the  com- 
munity of  which  he  was  director  and  where  he  had 
spent  his  youth. 

A  year  later  we  heard  that  he  had  died,  after 
writing  the  book  of  his  life,  not  one  page  of  which 
was  destroyed.  He  passed  away  in  the  state  called 
Samadhi,  which  means,  in  Sanscrit,  to  die  volun- 
tarily, from  a  "will  to  die,"  without  accident  or 
sickness,  saying  to  his  disciples,  "I  will  die  on  such 
a  day." 

Years  later,  when  I  was  travelling  in  India,  I 
wished  to  visit  the  convent  where  the  Swami  had 
spent  his  last  days.  His  mother  took  me  there.  I 
saw  the  beautiful  marble  tomb  that  one  of  his 
American  friends,  Mrs.  Leggett,  had  erected  over 
his  grave.  I  noticed  that  there  was  no  name  upon 
it.  I  asked  his  brother,  who  was  a  monk  in  the 
same  Order,  the  reason  of  this  omission.  He  looked 
at  me  in  astonishment,  and,  with  a  noble  gesture 
that  I  remember  to  this  day, 

"He  has  passed  on,"  he  answered. 

The  Vedantas  believe  that  they  have  preserved, 
in  its  original  purity  and  simplicity,  the  teachings 
of  Buddha.     They  have  no  temples,  saying  their 

192 


ORDER  OF  THE  VEDANTAS 

prayers  in  a  simple  oratory,  with  no  symbolic  fig- 
ures or  pictures  to  stimulate  their  piety.  In  one 
corner  of  this  place  is  a  small  statue  of  Buddha,  as 
though  they  wished  to  say,  "It  is  from  him  that  we 
have  learned  the  way."  Their  prayers  are  all  ad- 
dressed to  the  Unknown  God. 

*'Oh  Thou  who  hast  no  name!  O  Thou  whom 
none  dare  name!  O  Thou  the  Great  Unknown!" 
they  say  in  their  supplications. 

The  Swami  taught  me  a  sort  of  respiratory 
prayer.  He  used  to  say  that  the  forces  of  the  deity, 
being  spread  everywhere  throughout  the  ether, 
could  be  received  into  the  body  through  the  in- 
drawn breath. 

The  monks  of  the  Swami's  brotherhood  received 
us  with  simple,  kindly  hospitality.  They  offered  us 
flowers  and  fruits,  spreading  a  table  for  us  on  the 
lawn  beneath  a  ^ welcome  shade.  At  our  feet  the 
mighty  Ganges  flowed.  Musicians  played  to  us 
on  strange  instruments,  weird,  plaintive  chants  that 
touched  the  very  heart.  A  poet  improvised  a  mel- 
ancholy recitative  in  praise  of  the  departed  Swami. 
The  afternoon  passed  in  a  peaceful,  contemplative 
cahn. 

193 


MY  LIFE 

The  hours  that  I  spent  with  these  gentle  phi- 
losophers have  remained  in  my  memory  as  a  time 
apart.  These  beings,  pure,  beautiful  and  remote, 
seemed  to  belong  to  another  universe,  a  better  and 
wiser  world. 


B 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MISTRAL 

Y  birth,  heredity  and  early  association,  I  am  a 
true  Daughter  of  the  South,  and  I  have  there- 
fore always  been  an  ardent  admirer  and  follower  of 
our  great  Proven9al  poet,  Frederic  Mistral.  He  it 
was  who  gave  me  the  device  which  I  have  used  for 
many  years,  and  which  I  have  placed  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  book.  He  told  me  that  it  was  the 
motto  of  a  troubadour  of  old,  and  that  he  had  se- 
lected it  as  being  particularly  appropriate  for  me. 
I  leave  it  in  French,  for  it  loses  much  of  its 
poetry  and  rhythm  when  translated  into  English. 
The  meaning  is  quite  obvious:  the  singer  charms 
his  sorrow  with  his  song,  or,  as  the  immortal  Shake- 
speare has  expressed  it: 

In  sweet  music  is  such  art, 
Killing  care  and  grief  at  heart 
Qui  chanfe  son  mal  enchante. 

Mistral,  the  poet  of  the  INIidi,  might  be  described 
as  the  Homer  of  his  country.    He  was  the  outstand- 

195 


MY  LIFE 

ing  figure,  the  genius,  the  leader,  of  that  group  of 
poets,  who,  during  the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  brought  about  a  renaissance  of  literature 
and  art  in  Southern  France.  Unfortunately,  very 
few,  even  among  French  people,  can  know  the  full 
beauty  of  his  verse,  for  he  wrote  in  Proven9al,  that 
rich  and  sonorous  language  which  was  the  speech  of 
troubadours  and  kings.  All  the  rulers  of  France, 
during  the  twelfth,  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  cen- 
turies, used  the  langue  dfoc,  as  the  speech  of  Pro- 
vence is  called,  before  it  was  supplanted  by  the 
harsher  language  of  the  north. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  of  Mistral's  epic  poems, 
"Mireille,"  personifying  the  romantic  and  exalted 
soul  of  Provence,  was  put  to  music  by  Gounod, 
and  the  leading  role  created  by  Madame  Carvalho. 
The  serenade,  "O  Magali!"  from  this  opera,  is 
an  exquisite  love  cong,  one  of  the  most  popular  and 
widely  known  of  Mistral's  poems.  Every  shepherd 
in  the  Midi  is  familiar  with  it.  I  myself  have  sung 
it  all  over  the  world.  It  is  to  this  song  that  I  owe 
Mistral's  dedication:  ''Alia  piu  alta  cantarella  di 
Mirbio!"  (To  the  greatest,  the  most  high  singer  of 
Mireille.) 

Mistral  was  adored  by  all  Provence.    Indeed,  in 

196 


MISTRAL 

his  character  of  poet  and  leader,  he  was  its  un- 
crowned king.  He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the 
Society  of  the  Fehbrige,  to  which  belonged  a  bril- 
liant galaxy  of  poets  and  artists.  The  annual  meet- 
ing of  this  society,  or  school,  was  held  at  Aries. 
Mistral,  presiding  at  these  festivals,  splendid  and 
dominant  even  in  his  old  age,  was  an  unforgettable 
picture.  Around  him  the  poets  gathered,  and  the 
peasants  danced  their  graceful  "farandoles,"  which 
so  strikingly  recall  the  dances  of  the  Greeks  in  all 
their  Attic  harmony  of  line  and  gesture. 

Some  years  before  he  died,  he  was  present  at  the 
unveiling  of  the  statue  of  himself  which  stands  in 
the  great  square  of  Aries,  not  far  from  the  museum 
which  he  had  built  and  presented  to  the  city.  The 
completion  of  the  statue  was  made  the  occasion  of 
a  remarkable  demonstration  cf  the  honour  and 
affection  in  which  the  great  poet  was  held,  not  only 
in  his  own  country,  but  all  over  the  world.  I  was 
asked  to  be  present;  but  having  just  returned  to 
my  chateau  at  Cabrieres  from  a  long  and  fatiguing 
tour  in  America,  I  refused  the  invitation. 

The  night  before  the  event,  I  was  aroused  from 
my  sleep  at  about  four  o'clock  by  a  vivid  dream  in 

197 


MY  LIFE 

which  my  father  seemed  to  appear  to  me  and  to 
reproach  me  for  not  taking  part  in  the  festival  in 
honour  of  our  great  poet. 

I  leaped  up  instantly  and,  donning  my  Arlesian 
costume,  proceeded  to  arouse  the  household.  Two 
American  ladies  were  staying  with  me  at  the  time. 
Waking  them  from  their  sleep,  I  attempted  to  dis- 
guise them  as  Proven9al  women,  an  almost  impos- 
sible undertaking,  in  view  of  their  marked  Anglo- 
Saxon  types! 

I  left  for  Aries  in  a  state  of  exaltation  impossible 
to  describe.  I  felt  as  though  I  were  being  impelled 
by  an  irresistible  force.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was 
one  with  all  my  people ;  that  into  my  soul  had  been 
poured  the  souls  of  my  forebears — my  clan;  that 
my  heart  throbbed  with  the  beating  of  a  thousand 
hearts!  I  longed  to  give  wings  to  the  motor 
that  carried  us  down  into  the  sunny  plains  of 
Provence. 

We  arrived  at  Aries  about  midday,  just  as  the 
distinguished  company  of  guests  and  visitors  was 
preparing  to  leave  the  platform  in  front  of  the 
town  hall,  where  the  ceremonies  had  taken  place. 
The   square  was  packed  tight  with  an  attentive 

198 


MISTRAL 

crowd  impossible  to  move  or  to  penetrate.  No  one 
would  make  way  for  us  or  let  us  pass.  Standing  on 
the  outskirts  of  that  indifferent  throng,  I  started 
to  sing  *'0  Magali!" — dear  to  all  Provencal 
hearts. 

As  though  by  magic,  a  pathway  opened  up  be- 
fore me,  and  I  walked  triumphantly  to  the  plat- 
form, singing  all  the  way.  Once  there,  standing 
beside  our  beloved  poet,  and  looking  out  over  the 
sea  of  upturned  faces,  I  sang,  with  a  complete  and 
joyous  abandon,  all  the  Provencal  songs  that  I 
knew.  The  crowd,  responsive,  vibrant,  took  up  the 
choruses.  I  was  exalted,  carried  out  of  myself  1  I 
longed  to  fill  the  whole  world  with  my  song ! 

At  last,  my  strength  exhausted,  I  stopped.  Mis- 
tral approached  me.  His  words,  spoken  in  the 
warm  language  of  the  South,  sounded  like  a  bene- 
diction, a  song. 

"You  came  down  from  the  mountains  like  a  tor- 
rent, with  all  your  mighty  race!  The  strength  and 
the  gladness  of  your  people  are  yours  on  this  day. 
The  crowds  parted  to  let  you  pass,  swept  back  by 
the  fire  of  your  oncoming,  your  voice  a  sword,  a 
leaping  flame!" 

199 


MY  LIFE 

Never  shall  I  forget  that  day  of  days.  Every 
country,  every  king  and  queen,  had  sent  a  poet  or 
a  representative.  Every  nation  paid  its  homage  to 
the  poet  of  Provence.  The  French  government 
alone  was  not  officially  represented,  but  the  heart 
of  France  was  there! 


J 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AROUND  THE  WORLD 

EAN  RICHEPIN,  whom  it  is  my  privilege 
to  count  among  my  friends,  has  always  said 
that  I  was  an  incorrigible  globe-trotter.  Indeed,  he 
is  right!  I  adore  travelling.  I  love  to  see  new 
sights,  new  countries,  to  study  the  customs  of  all  the 
different  peoples  of  the  world.  I  am  fortunate,  in 
that  my  profession  has  permitted  me  to  indulge  this 
taste !  I  used  to  dream  of  singing  in  every  country 
of  the  world,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  have  very 
nearly  carried  out  this  programme.  I  have  sung  in 
India,  China,  Japan,  Hawaii,  countries  in  which 
very  few  of  my  colleagues  had  been  heard,  up  to 
the  time  of  my  visit. 

By  way  of  realising  my  dream,  I  accepted  an 
engagement  for  Australia  in  1910.  I  started  on  my 
long  tour  which  was  to  take  me  entirely  around  the 
globe  in  INIarch  of  that  year.  We  sailed  from 
Marseilles  one  lovely  spring  day,  aboard  a  luxurious 
steamer  of  the  Peninsular-Orientale  Line. 

201 


MY  LIFE 

Our  first  objective  was  Perth,  in  Australia,  and 
from  there  we  toured  through  all  the  principal 
cities  of  the  country.  Our  reception  everywhere 
was  enthusiastic.  At  Melbourne  my  local  manager 
greeted  me  with  the  news  that  he  had  made  arrange- 
ments for  a  reception  so  that  the  people  could  have 
the  opportunity  of  welcoming  me  properly.  The 
city  was  plastered  with  announcements  a  yard  high : 

COME  TO  THE  RECEPTION 
TO  WELCOME  THE  GREAT  SINGER 

EMMA  CALVE 

JUST  ARRIVED  FROM  EUROPE! 

When  the  day  came,  I  was  conducted  to  a  hall 
where  I  expected  to  find  not  more  than  a  couple  of 
hundred  people.  What  was  my  alarm  when  I  found 
myself  in  a  huge,  barnlike  place,  where  at  least  four 
thousand  of  jNIelbourne's  citizens  had  gathered  to 
greet  me! 

After  visiting  Adelaide,  Sydney,  Brisbane, 
Wellington,  Christchurch,  etc.,  we  returned  to 
Singapore  and  Colombo.  I  sang  in  those  two 
places  and  then  proceeded  on  a  long  tour  through 
India,  visiting  Madras,  Calcutta,  Darjiling,  Delhi, 

202 


AROUND  THE  WORLD 

Agra,  Bombay.  In  all  these  cities  there  were,  of 
course,  a  number  of  English  people  in  our  au- 
diences, as  well  as  the  native  Indian  maharajahs 
and  their  families.  It  was  during  this  journey  in 
India  that  I  went  to  the  monastery  of  the  Swami 
and  saw  his  tomb,  and  was  received  by  the  monks  of 
his  Order. 

After  visiting  Burma,  the  city  of  Rangoon  and 
the  famous  Hill  of  the  Thousand  Buddhas,  we  went 
on  to  China,  where  I  had  the  amusing  experience 
of  calling  upon  a  distinguished  mandarin  of  Can- 
ton, to  whom  I  had  a  letter  of  introduction. 

One  day  I  was  invited  to  sing  for  him  at  his 
house.  He  was  a  very  important  personage,  and 
I  was  duly  impressed  by  the  honour!  I  took  an 
interpreter  with  me,  and  sang  some  French  songs 
for  my  noble  host.  My  first  song  was  "L'air  du 
Cosaque,"  by  IVIunuvoska.  He  listened  with  the 
most  serious  and  profound  attention.  When  I  had 
finished,  the  interpreter  explained  the  theme  of  my 
song  to  him. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  commented  at  last, 
"that  the  lady  is  singing  and  acting  the  death  of  a 
soldier?  Why,  then,  does  she  remain  beautiful? 
Dying  is  not  beautiful,  but  terrible!     Our  actors 

203 


MY  LIFE 

become  as  hideous  as  death  itself,  when  they  inter- 
pret such  parts." 

I  explained,  through  the  interpreter,  that  in 
Europe  many  consider  the  sublimation  of  nature  to 
be  the  highest  expression  of  art. 

"We  have  passed  through  that  phase,"  he  an- 
swered. "When  physical  beauty  is  admired  above 
all  other  manifestations,  then  is  a  country  on  the 
verge  of  decadence.  Consider  the  teachings  of 
history !  We  ourselves  have  gone  on  to  more  funda- 
mental truths." 

The  "iVIysoli,"  which  I  then  sang,  seemed  to 
please  him  better.  He  was  fascinated  by  its  trills 
and  roulades. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed.  "This  is  lovely!  It  sounds 
exactly  like  a  bird!  It  is  delicious,  and  it  is  very 
difficult  as  well.  I  do  not  believe  that  our  artists 
could  do  it  with  such  perfection!" 

The  greatest  impression  that  I  made  on  him, 
however,  was  neither  by  my  dramatic  nor  my  mu- 
sical ability.  Unexpected  success !  It  was  the  force 
of  my  lungs  that  astonished  him  more  than  any- 
thing else. 

"These  Occidental  women!"  he  exclaimed  to  the 
interpreter.     "What  marvellous  lung-power  they 

204 


AROUND  THE  WORLD 

have!   What  strength,  what  force!    It  is  splendid  1" 

I  was  decidedly  mortified.  After  all  my  efforts, 
this  was  all  he  could  find  to  praise ! 

As  I  was  saying  my  adieux,  my  host  asked  me  to 
come  the  next  day,  that  I  might  see  a  Chinese  actor 
perform  according  to  the  artistic  canons  of  the 
Orient.  The  mandarin  promised  to  secure  the  very 
best  actor  in  Canton,  and  I  returned  the  next  day 
to  his  house,  full  of  curiosity  and  interest. 

The  actor  was  dressed  as  a  woman,  for  it  is  rare 
to  find  women  on  the  Chinese  stage.  He  carried  a 
wand  in  his  right  hand,  with  which  he  controlled 
the  movements  of  a  small  orchestra.  The  musicians, 
who  played  on  curious  wooden  instruments,  were 
hidden  in  the  wings  and  could  not  be  seen  from  the 
audience.  At  a  signal  from  the  stage,  the  rhythmic 
throbbing  stopped. 

The  actor  then  began  a  recitative,  half  sung, 
half  spoken,  punctuated  by  deep,  guttural  cries, 
more  like  the  sound  of  an  animal  in  pain  than  a 
human  voice.  While  he  chanted  his  dismal  story, 
he  twisted  himself  into  such  extraordinary  attitudes 
and  made  such  hideous  faces  that  I  was  suddenly 
overcome  with  laughter.  I  hid  my  face  in  my  hand- 
kerchief, in  a  paroxysm  of  mirth. 

205 


MY  LIFE 

"Tell  my  host  that  I  am  crying  I"  I  whispered 
to  the  interpreter.  "Tell  him  that  I  am  ill!  Any- 
thing so  that  he  will  not  notice  my  laughter!" 

The  actor  became  more  and  more  violent.  He 
imitated  the  voice  of  a  child,  the  voice  of  a  woman, 
the  gasps  of  a  dying  man.  It  was  extremely  real- 
istic, but  the  result  was  more  grotesque  than  im- 
pressive. The  mandarin,  hearing  my  strangled  gig- 
gles, was  very  much  pleased. 

"How  sensitive  she  is!"  he  murmured.  "How 
deeply  moved!    It  is  pitiful!" 

I  managed  to  recover  my  dignity  in  time  to  make 
my  exit  from  my  host's  presence  with  proper  cere- 
moniousness  and  with  many  expressions  of  admira- 
tion. But  with  all  respect  to  the  art  of  the  Orient, 
and  with  due  modesty  for  my  own  shortcomings,  I 
would  not  wish  to  become  a  student  of  their 
methods ! 

From  Shanghai  we  sailed  for  Japan.  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  describe  the  countries  we  traversed  on 
our  long  journey,  tiie  marvellous  scenery,  the  beau- 
ties of  art  and  architecture,  which  met  our  eyes  on 
every  side.  All  this  has  been  done  much  better  than 
I  myself  could  do  it,  by  many  great  travellers  and 
writers.    It  is  enough  to  say  that,  for  me,  the  sight 

206 


AROUND  THE  WORLD 

of  those  distant  and  wonderful  countries  was  in- 
finitely more  marvellous  than  anything  my  imagina- 
tion had  created.  Every  step  of  the  way  was 
fascinating,  and  my  memory  is  a  rich  storehouse  of 
beautiful,  colourful  and  gorgeous  scenes. 

In  Japan  we  gave  concerts  at  Kioto,  the  ancient, 
and  Tokio,  the  modern  capital  of  the  country. 
Near  Nagasaki,  I  had  the  interesting  experience  of 
living  for  over  two  weeks  in  a  Japanese  family  to 
which  I  had  been  introduced  by  one  of  my  American 
friends.  The  head  of  the  family  was  a  Buddhist 
priest  who,  with  his  sister  and  his  sister's  children, 
lived  within  the  confines  of  the  ancient  temple 
which  he  served.  Plis  sister  offered  me  the  hospital- 
ity of  a  real  Japanese  house.  My  room  was  simply 
furnished  with  a  mat  and  one  or  two  cushions.  In 
one  corner  of  it  stood  a  low  tea  table.  That  was 
all!  At  night,  I  was  given  some  larger  cushions 
over  which,  as  a  concession  to  my  western  habits, 
linen  sheets  were  spread.  The  paper  screens  were 
drawn  together,  and  I  was  cliez  moi! 

I  attended  all  the  ceremonies  in  the  temple  and 
learned  much  of  the  religion  and  philosophy  of 
these  wise  and  highly  cultured  people.  The  nieces 
of  the  priest  spoke  French  and  used  to  come  to  me 

207 


MY  LIFE 

every  morning  with  flowers  and  gifts.  They  taught 
me  how  to  "compose"  a  bouquet  and  to  express  an 
idea  or  a  sentiment  with  one  or  two  flowers  care- 
fully arranged.  A  certain  blossom  placed  in  a  given 
relation  to  another  meant  a  definite  phrase.  These 
young  girls  were  able  to  paint  their  poets'  verses  in 
the  fragrant  colours  of  the  flowers ! 

Each  morning  they  brought  me  the  bibelot  or 
ornament  Avhich  was  to  grace  my  room  for  that  day. 
Sometimes  it  was  a  figure  of  Buddha,  made  many 
thousand  years  ago;  sometimes  a  lovely  vase  or  a 
gorgeous  bit  of  carved  jade.  They  would  place  it 
carefully  on  my  table,  and  we  would  admire  it  from 
every  angle.  Once  they  showed  me  the  storeroom 
where  all  their  treasures  were  kept. 

"Why  do  you  hide  away  all  these  beauties?"  I 
exclaimed.  "They  could  be  put  in  every  room  of 
the  house,  so  that  you  could  enjoy  them  all  the 
time!" 

"What  a  horrible  idea!"  they  answered.  "Posi- 
tively barbarous!  How  dreadful  to  have  all  these 
things  around  us!  In  the  first  place,  it  would  be 
unhealthy.  But  most  of  all,  we  would  soon  become 
so  accustomed  to  them  that  we  would  cease  to  en- 
joy or  even  to  see  them.     Isn't  it  much  better  to 

208 


AROUND  THE  WORLD 

take  them  out  one  at  a  time,  to  study  them  indi- 
vidually and  appreciate  all  their  delicate  beauty  and 
charm?  That  is  the  only  way  you  can  really  enjoy 
a  work  of  art!" 

What  an  unforgettable  spring  that  was,  when 
the  cold  broke  and  the  cherry-blossom  time  arrived  I 
I  hated  to  leave  that  flowering  land. 

We  had  to  go  on,  however,  and  so  we  sailed  from 
Yokohama  for  San  Francisco  on  the  Chiomaru, 
which  was  later  torpedoed  by  the  Germans  when 
it  was  in  the  service  of  the  United  States.  Our 
steamer  was  scheduled  to  stop  at  Honolulu  on  the 
way.  Although  this  city  was  not  on  our  itinerary, 
our  friends  urged  us  to  inform  the  manager  of  the 
opera  house  there  that  we  were  coming,  and  that 
we  might  be  able  to  give  a  concert  if  it  was  desired. 
Accordingly,  I  dispatched  a  telegram  by  wireless, 
and  received  a  prompt  and  enthusiastic  reply. 

When  we  arrived  in  the  harbour  of  Honolulu, 
we  beheld  a  fleet  of  little  balloons  floating  over  the 
city,  to  each  one  of  which  was  attached  a  large 
picture  of  mj-self !  It  was  a  most  amusing  effect, 
to  see  one's  image  suspended  in  mid-air  in  this  way! 
The  manager  met  us  at  the  dock,  in  an  automobile 
piled  high  with  flowers.    They  have  a  very  delight- 

209 


MY  LIFE 

ful  way  of  receiving  strangers  who  set  foot  for  the 
first  time  on  this  sunny  isle.  As  you  arrive  and  as 
you  leave,  you  are  crowned  with  sweet-smelling 
wreaths  of  yellow  jasmine,  and  you  are  supposed  to 
throw  these  garlands,  as  an  offering,  into  the  sea 
before  you  go.  I  was  almost  smothered  that  day, 
as  wreath  after  wreath  was  thrown  over  my  head, 
until  my  face  disappeared  and  I  could  hardly 
breathe  through  the  mass  of  odorous  blossoms. 

We  gave  not  one  but  three  concerts  during  our 
brief  stay,  so  enthusiastic  and  cordial  were  the  audi- 
ences. Indeed,  I  have  never  been  in  so  enchanting 
a  city.  The  atmosphere  is  delicious,  soft,  glowing 
and  luminous.  It  is  never  too  hot  or  too  cold — an 
eternal  June,  broken  only  by  the  two  or  three  rainy 
months  when  the  inhabitants  remain  in  their  houses, 
never  going  out  at  all  until  the  weather  clears  again. 
On  this  island  in  the  mid-Pacific,  the  air  is  so  light, 
so  clear  and  fresh,  that  it  is  as  stimulating  as  cham- 
pagne, and  fills  you  with  exhilaration  and  delight. 
The  native  women  are  beautiful,  and  the  music,  the 
songs,  and  the  dances  of  the  country  extraordinarily 
fascinating. 

I  went  often  to  visit  the  huge  aquarium,  which  is 
one  of  the  wonders  of  the  place.    On  account  of  the 

210 


AROUND  THE  WORLD 

coral  formations  that  surround  these  islands,  the 
fauna  and  flora  of  the  sea  are  astoundingly  varie- 
gated and  beautiful.  As  one  walks  through  the 
halls  of  the  aquarium,  one  wonders  whether  these 
marvelous  creations  are  birds,  fish  or  flowers. 
Every  colour,  shade  and  shape  are  seen  in  those 
opalescent  depths,  fishes  that  look  like  birds  of 
paradise,  growths  that  resemble  the  horrible  drag- 
on of  fairy  tales.  It  is  a  fascinating  place,  alive 
with  the  wonder  and  mystery  of  the  deep. 

The  houses  of  the  island  are  almost  all  sur- 
rounded by  huge  gardens  filled  with  many  kinds  of 
flowers,  whose  mingled  odours  perfume  the  warm 
air.  Of  all  the  countries  that  I  saw  on  my  long 
journey,  from  the  point  of  view  of  natural  beauties, 
Hawaii  stands  out  as  the  most  admirable. 

After  a  few  days,  all  too  brief,  on  this  island 
paradise,  we  left  for  California,  New  York  and 
home !  We  landed  in  France  after  nineteen  months 
of  absence.  We  had  been  about  150  days  at  sea, 
and  had  experienced  all  kinds  of  weather,  from 
monsoons  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  through  dreadful 
storms  off  the  coast  of  Australia,  to  a  small  typhoon 
in  the  unpeaceful  Pacific. 

When  I  reached  Paris,  my  eyes  were  troubling 

211 


MY  LIFE 

me  very  much.    I  went  to  one  of  the  best  oculists  in 
town  to  ask  his  advice. 

"What  do  you  expect?"  he  asked.  "Of  course 
your  eyes  are  tired !  You  have  seen  more  in  the  last 
few  months  than  I  in  all  my  seventy  years!" 


I 


CHAPTER  XXV 

DURING  THE  GREAT  WAR 

N  1915  and  1916  I  went  again  to  America,  and 
sang  in  over  forty  concerts  for  the  benefit  of 
the  Lafayette  Fund  and  other  war  organisations. 
One  night,  in  June,  1916,  I  sang  at  the  Bazar  des 
AUies  in  New  York.  There  must  have  been  ten 
thousand  people  in  the  great  hall  of  the  Armory. 
A  platform  had  been  built  in  one  corner,  and  the 
orchestra  and  chorus  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  were  engaged  to  accompany  me.  I  remem- 
ber that  the  platform  was  very  high  and  that  I  had 
to  climb  up  to  it  on  a  ladder — a  rather  alarming 
proceeding! 

As  I  looked  out  over  that  mass  of  people,  I  was 
deeply  moved.  Xever  before  had  I  sung  for  such 
an  assembly.  I  was  almost  frightened,  but,  sum- 
moning my  courage,  I  began  the  "Marseillaise." 
The  refrain  was  supposed  to  be  taken  up  by  the 
opera  chorus,  but  suddenly  the  whole  huge  audience 
burst  into  thunderous  song.    The  tlu-obbing  tides  of 

213 


MY  LIFE 

sound,  imprisoned  under  the  glass  dome,  broke  over 
me  in  crashing  waves.  I  rocked  Mke  a  tree  beaten 
upon  by  mighty  winds.  It  was  tremendous,  awful 
— the  most  overwhelming  emotion  I  have  ever  ex- 
perienced!   I  burst  into  tears. 

The  people  around  me  were  weeping,  too.     I 
looked  at  them  in  despair. 

"What  shall  we  do,  now?"  I  exclaimed.  "How 
are  we  to  sing  in  this  condition?" 

The  second  stanza  was  about  to  begin.  I 
thought  of  Rachel,  the  great  tragedian,  who  used 
to  kneel  when  she  recited  the  "Marseillaise."  I  fol- 
lowed her  example,  and  sang  the  final  stanzas  as 
though  in  ardent  and  impassioned  prayer.  My 
voice  was  broken  with  tears,  but  I  was  so  exalted, 
so  filled  with  flaming  patriotism,  that  I  truly  beheve 
I  have  never  sung  the  battle  hymn  of  France  as  I 
did  that  night ! 

The  crowd  surged  forward.  I  was  lifted  up  and 
carried  in  triumph  through  a  cheering,  frantic  mul- 
titude. Some  one  put  a  poilu's  steel  helmet  in  my 
hands.  I  held  it  out,  a  suppliant  for  my  country. 
"Poiir  la  Francer  I  cried. 
The  improvised  alms  plate  filled  and  filled  again, 
as  fast  as  I  could  empty  it.    It  was  as  though  the 

214 


C\LviJ   Sixc;ixc;  thk  "Makskiilaise" 


DURING  THE  GREAT  WAR 

Horn  of  Plenty  were  pouring  its  inexhaustible  flood 
into  my  hands. 

What  a  generous,  what  a  magnificent  people !  I 
cannot  think  of  that  evening  without  a  glow  of 
gratitude  toward  the  audience  which,  in  a  single 
burst  of  enthusiasm  and  sympathy,  gave  the  fabu- 
lous sum  of  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  the 
war  sufferers  of  France. 

In  Aveyron,  as  in  other  parts  of  France  during 
the  war,  the  peasant  women  were  admirable.  They 
took  the  place  of  the  men  who  were  called  to  the 
front,  shouldering  the  tasks  of  husband,  father  or 
brother,  working  morning  and  night,  so  that  the 
land  should  not  be  neglected. 

The  wives  of  my  two  farmers,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  they  each  had  five  or  six  children,  managed  to 
run  the  farm  as  usual.  They  tilled  the  soil,  gath- 
ered the  grapes,  harvested  the  grain;  no  task  was 
too  heavy  or  too  arduous.  Their  children  helped 
them.    Not  a  hand  was  idle. 

One  day  I  met  the  six-year-old  daughter  of  one 
of  these  women  on  the  highway  below  Cabrieres. 
She  was  driving  a  herd  of  cattle  toward  the  farm- 
yard.   I  wondered  why  they  obeyed  her,  so  diminu- 

215 


MY  LIFE 

tive,  so  fragile  did  she  seem  in  comparison  with 
their  lumbering  bulk.  In  her  two  hands  she  held, 
clasped  tightly,  a  huge  whip,  twice  her  size.  Her 
face  was  solemn  and  intent.    She  walked  slowly. 

^^FantouneT  I  said,  "why  don't  you  choose  a 
smaller  stick?  You  will  get  all  tired  out  carrying 
that  heavy  thing  around  with  you!" 

She  drew  herself  up  to  the  limit  of  her  small 
stature. 

"It  is  my  father's  whip!"  she  answered,  with  the 
pride  a  princess  would  have  used  in  speaking  of 
her  royal  parent's  sceptre. 

I  tried  one  year  during  the  spring  planting  to 
help  the  women  in  the  fields.  I  sowed  a  corner  of 
the  wheatfield,  walking  over  the  newly  ploughed 
land,  flinging  the  grain  with  the  swinging  im- 
memorial gesture  I  had  so  often  watched.  But  my 
hand  was  too  generous.  When  the  harvest  season 
came,  the  farmer's  wife  showed  me  the  field  I  had 
planted.  The  wheat  had  grown  up  thick  and  close 
together  and  then  fallen  to  the  ground  of  its  own 
weight. 

"Ah,  Madame,"  the  old  woman  murmured  re- 
proachfully. "Look  how  carelessly  you  threw  away 
the  bread  of  the  hon  Dieu!    It's  a  great  sin!    All 

216 


DURING  THE  GREAT  WAR 

the  same,"  she  added,  as  though  to  soften  the  harsh- 
ness of  her  verdict,  "you  show  a  certain  aptitude! 
You  might  learn  in  time!" 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  was  any  better  as  a 
nurse  than  as  a  farmer.  At  any  rate,  I  did  what  I 
could  and  served  a  certain  length  of  time  in  the 
hospitals.  It  is  all  so  terrible,  so  cruel  a  memory, 
that  even  now  I  cannot  bear  to  dwell  upon  it. 
Every  one  who  has  touched  even  remotely  the  hor- 
ror of  those  white  wards,  the  suffering  and  the 
agony  of  those  dark  days,  will  understand  my  un- 
willingness to  recall  those  ghastly  scenes. 

Once  I  was  directed  to  wash  the  feet  of  a  poor 
boy  who  had  been  brought  down  from  the  front  and 
had  not  yet  been  cared  for.  I  took  off  his  shoe 
and  stocking  together.  As  I  did  so,  I  noticed  that 
the  shoe  was  unusually  heavy.  I  glanced  at  his 
leg  and  saw,  to  my  horror,  that  half  of  his  foot  was 
gone!  His  feet  had  been  frozen  in  the  trenches, 
and  were  already  gangrenous.  Both  legs  had  to  be 
amputated. 

I  sang  a  great  deal  for  the  convalescent  soldiers. 
They  loved  the  old  Frencli  ballads,  the  folksongs  of 
Brittany  and  the  Pyrenees  and  of  my  own  part  of 

217 


MY  LIFE 

the  country.  One  day  I  was  in  a  hospital  that 
cared  for  German  as  well  as  French  wounded. 
After  I  had  sung  several  songs  to  the  French  sol- 
diers, one  of  the  poilus  asked  if  I  would  permit  the 
door  to  be  opened  into  the  prisoners'  ward. 

"The  poor  fellows  in  there  ought  to  have  the 
chance  of  hearing  your  heavenly  voice!"  he  said. 

"No!  No!"  I  exclaimed.  "I  could  not  sing  for 
them!    They  have  hurt  us  too  much!" 

The  boy  looked  up  in  surprise.  I  noticed,  for 
the  first  time,  that  his  right  arm  was  missing. 

"How  about  me?"  he  asked.  "Don't  you  sup- 
pose that  they  have  hurt  me,  too?" 

I  was  shamed  by  such  generosity,  and  told  che 
orderly  to  open  the  door.  I  sang,  after  that,  stand- 
ing on  the  threshold  between  the  two  wards,  but  I 
kept  my  eyes  tight  shut.  I  could  not  bring  myself 
to  look  at  them ! 

Of  all  the  terrible  suffering  brought  by  the  war — 
loss  of  limbs,  permanent  and  ghastly  injuries, 
broken  Hves — nothing  is  to  me  more  pitiful 
than  the  fate  of  the  men  blinded  in  battle.  What 
an  inexpressible  calamity,  to  lose  the  joy  of  seeing, 
to  be  shut  up  forever  in  a  formless  void! 

Every  effort  made  to  alleviate  the  condition  of 

218 


DURING  THE  GREAT  WAR 

these  unfortunate  men  interested  me  greatly.  The 
various  departments  of  France  had  each  its  special 
organisation  devoted  to  their  care.  Industries  were 
created  for  their  benefit,  and  they  were  taught  to 
make  all  sorts  of  articles  where  skill  of  fingers  could 
replace  the  use  of  eyes. 

One  day  I  had  been  singing  in  a  hospital  for  the 
blind  in  my  own  department.  Before  I  left  I 
stood  for  a  while  in  the  courtyard,  watching  the 
men  at  their  recreation.  I  was  struck  anew  by  the 
contrast  between  the  vigour  of  their  bodies  and  the 
awkward,  hesitating  manner  in  which  they  moved 
and  tried  to  play.  There  they  were,  young  men  in 
the  prime  of  life,  healthy,  strong,  but  cut  off  for- 
ever from  the  comforts  and  consolations  of  a  nor- 
mal life,  the  companionship  of  wives  and  the  love 
of  children. 

"Why  should  they  not  marry?"  I  thought,  as  I 
watched  them.  "Surely,  there  are  women  who 
would  be  glad  to  love  and  care  for  these  poor 
boys!" 

Suddenly  I  recalled  a  conversation  I  had  had  a 
few  days  previous,  with  a  friend  who  was  the  di- 
rectress of  a  home  for  orphaned  and  abandoned 
girls.     This  organisation  cared  for  children  who 

219 


MY  LIFE 

would  otherwise  have  died  of  neglect  or  starvation 
— poor  little  things  left  on  church  steps,  or  found 
wandering  in  the  streets  at  a  tender  age,  without 
parents,  relatives  or  friends.  When  they  grew  up, 
they  were  given  a  "dot"  or  marriage  portion  by  the 
orphanage,  and  this  enabled  them  to  marry  and  be- 
come happy  and  independent  wives  and  mothers. 

My  friend  had  told  me  that  there  was  a  pathetic 
side  to  the  situation.  The  ugly  girls  rarely  found 
husbands,  no  matter  how  fine  and  worthy  they 
might  be,  while  the  pretty  girls  were  married  off 
without  the  slightest  difficulty.  The  poor  ugly 
ducklings  were  left  behind,  and  were  extremely  un- 
happy. 

With  this  conversation  in  mind,  I  went  to  the 
doctor  in  charge  of  the  hospital  and  had  a  long  talk 
with  him.  Then  I  called  my  automobile  and  flew  to 
the  orphan  asylum,  where  I  laid  my  plan  before 
the  directress,  asking  her  advice  and  assistance. 
She  was  enthusiastic,  and  then  and  there  called  the 
girls  together,  asking  me  to  talk  to  them. 

I  found  myself  facing  a  group  of  shy  young 
women,  dressed  all  alike,  but  showing  every  variety 
of  beauty  and  charm.  I  do  not  know  exactly  what 
I  said,  but  in  my  heart  was  the  picture  of  that 

220 


DURING  THE  GREAT  WAR 

sunny  courtyard  filled  with  splendid  youth  to 
whom  all  the  glory  of  the  midday  sun  could  bring 
no  ray  of  colour  or  of  light.  I  described  the  soli- 
tude, the  loneliness,  of  these  poor  boys.  I  pointed 
out  that  the  very  infirmity  which  crippled  them 
would  make  them  better  and  more  loyal  husbands. 
•  "Think  of  it!"  I  exclaimed.  "These  men  will  not 
see  the  companion  of  their  lives  grow  old  and  ugly ! 
The  woman  who  is  big-hearted  enough  to  marry  a 
blind  man  will  always  remain  the  glorious  vision  of 
youth  and  beauty  that  his  grateful  imagination 
paints  her!" 

One  of  the  girls  rose  from  her  seat.  She  was 
plain,  dark,  unprepossessing,  but  her  eyes  shone 
with  intelligence,  and  she  was  deeply  moved. 

"I  am  ready!"  she  exclaimed,  and,  indifferent  to 
the  whisperings  and  nudgings  of  her  companions, 
she  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak  and  came  with  me. 

She  did  not  speak  until  we  had  almost  reached 
the  gate  of  the  hospital.    Then  she  turned  to  me. 

"Let  me  choose  him,"  she  said,  "for  I,  at  any 
rate,  shall  see  him  all  my  life!" 

The  men  were  still  out  of  doors  when  we  arrived. 
As  we  walked  toward  the  main  entrance,  the  girl 
caught  my  arm. 

221 


MY  LIFE 

"That  one!"  she  cried  excitedly,  pointing  out  a 
tall  fellow  who  was  lounging  against  the  wall  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  court.  "That  is  the  one  I 
want!"  She  had  picked  out  the  handsomest  of  the 
lot,  in  the  few  seconds  that  it  took  to  cross  the  court- 
yard! 

I  led  her  to  him  and  put  his  hand  in  hers. 

"Here  is  a  young  girl  who  will  take  you  for  a 
walk,"  I  said,  as  I  presented  them  to  each  other. 
"Go,  my  children,  and  God  bless  you!" 

An  hour  later  they  returned.  It  had  not  taken 
them  long  to  reach  an  understanding. 

"He  is  splendid!"  the  girl  murmured,  shyly. 

The  blind  boy,  his  face  lit  with  a  new  wonder 
and  delight,  groped  for  my  hand. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  madame,"  he  said,  and 
then,  carried  away  by  his  enthusiasm,  "she's  a 
wonder!"  he  exclaimed.  "Such  a  talker,  and  what 
a  fine  figure  of  a  woman!" 

A  year  later,  I  visited  them  in  the  little  home 
where  they  had  settled  after  their  marriage.  A 
charming  scene  greeted  me  as  I  came  into  the  yard 
of  the  farmhouse. 

It  was  again  one  of  those  gorgeous  days  that  are 
the  joy  of  southern  France.    In  the  warmest  cor- 

222 


DURING  THE  GREAT  WAR 

ner  of  the  court,  the  blind  man  sat  on  a  bench 
against  the  wall.  In  his  arms  a  naked,  rosy  baby 
kicked  and  wriggled  with  delight.  Near  by,  the 
mother  was  at  work,  preparing  the  baby's  cradle. 

The  father  played  with  the  child,  touching  it 
with  delicate,  sensitive  fingers,  feeling  the  soft  hair 
on  its  head,  following  the  contours  of  the  little  body 
with  his  hands.  His  face  was  transfigured  with  joy. 
A  solemn  ecstasy  seemed  to  radiate  from  him. 

His  wife  saw  me  and  hurried  to  greet  me.  We 
stood  for  a  while  talking.  I  could  see  that  some- 
thing troubled  her.  The  unclouded  bliss  of  that 
absorbed  blind  face  was  not  hers.  Finally,  she 
drew  me  out  of  earshot  and  poured  out  her  anxiety. 

"I  am  ashamed  to  lie  to  him!"  she  exclaimed. 
"He  thinks  I  am  beautiful.  I,  who  am  as  ugly  as 
a  witch!  He  thinks  my  hair  is  golden,  my  eyes 
blue.  I,  who  am  as  brown  as  a  nut!  Yet,  if  I  tell 
him  the  truth,  he  will  not  love  me  any  more!  Oh, 
madame,  madaine!    What  shall  I  do?" 

I  comforted  her  and  reassured  her.  Looking  at 
the  scene  before  me,  I  knew  there  was  no  danger. 

"Teiyiim  the  truth,  my  child,"  I  answered.  "You 
need  have  no  fear.  Put  your  son  into  his  arms,  and 
he  will  find  no  fault  in  you.    All  will  be  well!" 

223 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  NEST  OF  YOUNG  SONG  BIRDS 

EVERY  summer  during  recent  years  I  have 
filled  my  castle  on  the  hill  top  with  different 
groups  of  young  girls  who  have  come  to  study  with 
me.  It  is  a  joy  to  me  to  have  these  young  people 
about,  to  hear  their  fresh  voices,  to  try  to  help 
them  a  little  in  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  the  diffi- 
cult arts  of  singing  and  of  hving. 

Both  at  Cabrieres  and  in  Paris,  where  I  teach 
during  part  of  the  year,  I  have  had  pupils  from 
every  quarter  of  the  globe:  Russians,  with  their 
fiery  temperament  and  unstable  emotions ;  Itahans, 
warm  and  gay,  bubbling  and  happy  on  the  least 
occasion ;  repressed  English  girls,  with  their  perfect 
manners  and  calm  exterior ;  French  girls,  charming 
and  serious,  eager  to  learn  and  ready  to  work  hard ; 
and,  of  course,  my  dear  Americans,  with  their  cor- 
dial, spontaneous  friendliness,  their  splendid  phys- 
ical equipment,  beautiful  voices  and  simple,  un- 
sophisticated outlook.    My  pupils  come  to  me  fronj 

225 


MY  LIFE 

every  walk  of  life,  in  every  stage  of  musical  devel- 
opment. Some  of  them  have  no  other  recommenda- 
tion than  the  beauty  of  their  natural,  untrained 
voices.  There  are  others,  again,  who  after  years  of 
study  wish  to  develop  some  particular  side  of  their 
talent,  diction,  dramatic  expression,  lyric  declama- 
tion— any  of  the  hundred  special  phases  of  a  sing- 
er's art. 

Whenever  it  is  possible,  I  take  these  young  girls 
into  my  own  home  at  Cabrieres.  What  happy, 
busy  summers  we  pass  among  my  beautiful  moun- 
tains, in  the  high  sohtude  of  my  well-beloved  coun- 
try! There,  far  from  the  world,  its  cares  and 
distractions  forgotten,  with  nothing  to  claim  our 
attention  outside  the  simple  routine  of  our  daily 
lives,  studying  becomes  a  pastime!  My  pupils 
learn  almost  unconsciously,  and  we  are  able  to  de- 
vote our  whole  attention  to  our  work,  without 
fatigue  or  strain. 

Cabrieres  itself  is  ideally  situated  for  a  singer  s 
holiday.  The  air  in  these  high  places  is  dry  and 
bracing — a  splendid  climate  for  those  whose  throats 
and  lungs  are  their  kingdom.  My  young  girls 
benefit  greatly  by  their  summer  in  the  country — a 
real  cure  d'air  for  those  who  come  from  cities  or 

226 


YOUNG  SONG  BIRDS 

from  damp,  low  regions.  I  can  take  care  of  a  num- 
ber of  pupils  in  my  little  castle,  and  they  share 
with  me  the  comfortable,  wholesome  country  life 
that  I  love  so  much.  Our  daily  routine  is  simplicity 
itself.  We  rise  early  and  dispatch  our  small  do- 
mestic duties,  for  here  at  Cabrieres  we  live  upon  a 
democratic  plane.  Rich  or  poor,  luxuriously  nur- 
tured or  hard  working — all  are  alike  under  this 
roof.  At  ten  o'clock  we  assemble  for  lessons  and 
work  hard  until  lunch  time.  In  the  afternoon  we 
take  our  pleasure.  Some  go  swimming  in  the  river 
near  by;  others  take  long  walks  among  the  hills. 
On  fete  days,  or  when  the  spirit  of  adventure  seizes 
us,  we  go  off  for  long  excursions  into  the  surround- 
ing countryside  in  the  automobile.  Motoring  is  a 
delight  in  this  part  of  the  world,  for  the  roads  are 
so  built  that  one  can  reach  a  fairly  great  altitude 
without  strain.  In  the  evening,  we  have  our  books, 
letters  to  write,  long  talks  by  the  fireside,  an  im- 
promptu lesson  or  two.  Indeed,  the  whole  day  is 
full  of  movement  and  song,  for  I  and  my  little 
troupe  are  happy  at  Cabrieres,  and  we  sing  as  easily 
as  we  walk  or  talk! 

The  distinguished  writer.  Bonnier,  has  published 
suoh  an  excellent  treatise  on  the  art  of  singing  and 

227 


MY  LIFE 

voice  production  that  there  remains  little  to  be  said 
on  this  most  interesting  and  much  disputed  sub- 
ject. In  reading  his  book  recently,  I  came  across 
a  remark  which  struck  me  as  particularly  appro- 
priate in  connection  with  my  school  at  Cabrieres. 
Bonnier  says  in  effect  that  "those  who  have  had 
long  experience  as  singers,  even  if  their  achievement 
may  not  have  been  more  than  mediocre,  are  alone 
among  mortals  the  custodians  of  a  little  secret.  The 
secret  of  the  voice!  They  alone  are  able  to  trans- 
mit this  secret  to  the  uninitiated.  Only  a  singer  can 
teach  the  art  of  singing,  only  a  vocahst  can  train 
the  voice!" 

Even  among  the  birds  is  this  true!  If  a  young 
nightingale  is  separated  from  his  kind,  he  sings  but 
poorly  and  imperfectly.  Should  he  be  placed,  while 
he  is  still  a  fledgling,  in  a  cage  of  sparrows,  he 
would  chirp  as  shrilly  as  do  they !  In  order  to  learn 
the  full  use  of  his  voice,  he  must  be  brought  up 
with  his  own  kind.  He  must  listen  constantly  to 
the  limpid  notes  of  the  full-grown  birds  about  him, 
which  he  will  soon  strive  to  emulate  and  may  in  the 
end  be  able  to  surpass. 

Yet,  though  this  may  seem  an  almost  self-evi- 
dent truth,  it  is  curious  and  sometimes  absurd  to 

228 


YOUNG  SONG  BIRDS 

note  that  among  those  who  undertake  to  teach  the 
difficult  art  of  singing  will  be  found  pianists,  the- 
atre managers,  professors  of  solfege,  teachers  of 
pantomime,  ladies  in  reduced  circumstances,  even 
ex-chorus  women.  I  know  of  one  instance  where 
the  lady's  maid  of  a  famous  opera  star  has  become 
a  teacher  of  singing,  and,  incidentally,  has  made  a 
very  good  business  of  it ! 

However  successful  these  unmusical  teachers 
of  singing  may  be  in  acquiring  pupils,  it  is,  never- 
theless, undeniable  that  the  true  way  to  teach  sing- 
ing is  through  the  ear.  To  learn  to  sing,  the  pupil 
should  listen,  as  does  the  young  nightingale,  to  the 
voice  of  his  master.  He  should  be  able  to  imitate 
the  sounds  made  by  his  master,  and  this  is  possible 
only  when  his  teacher  is  a  singer.  The  master,  in 
addition,  must  be  able  to  lend  the  accuracy  of  his 
nmsician's  ear,  trained  by  long  years  of  experience, 
to  guide  the  first  steps  of  the  young  aspirant.  Mu- 
sical judgment,  vocal  understanding  is  only  gained 
by  long  practice  and  hard  work.  It  cannot  be 
acquired  off-hand  by  any  short  cuts  to  success. 

In  the  equipment  of  a  singing  teacher,  a  certain 
amount  of  scientific  knowledge  is  essential.  Unless 
he  understands  physiology  and  anatomy,  he  may 

229 


MY  LIFE 

fall  into  very  grave  errors.  These  important  sub- 
jects have  always  been  very  carefully  studied  by  the 
best  masters.  Was  it  not  a  singer,  Manuel  Garcia, 
who  first  made  use  of  the  autolaryngoscope  ?  His 
apparatus  was  later  modified  by  two  other  doctor- 
singers,  Bataille  and  Segond. 

Teaching  must  be  based  on  accurate  and  intelli- 
gent knowledge  of  the  mechanism  of  the  body,  par- 
ticularly of  the  head,  throat  and  lungs ;  for,  though 
such  knowledge  will  not  make  a  great  singer,  yet 
ignorance  may  ruin  a  good  one !  How  much  harm 
can  be  done  by  inexperienced  teachers  and  careless 
methods !  Knowledge,  actual  experience,  attention 
to  detail,  and  endless  patience — these  are  but  a  few 
of  the  qualities  needed  by  those  who  undertake  the 
training  of  a  singer ! 

Standards  and  types  of  singing  vary  from  period 
to  period.  In  the  past,  much  emphasis  was  placed 
upon  pure  vocalisation,  hel  canto,  the  perfect,  even 
production  of  each  note.  This  method  sometimes 
developed  into  pure  vocal  gymnastics.  It  might 
almost  be  said  that  at  this  period  the  singer  sang 
too  much;  that  he  did  not  pay  enough  attention  to 
diction  and  declamation.  Now,  on  the  contrary, 
with  the  introduction  of  a  new  type  of  music,  less 

230 


YOUNG  SONG  BIRDS 

rich  in  opportunity  for  vocal  fireworks,  the  singer 
might  be  accused  of  placing  too  much  emphasis  on 
declamation.  He  does  not  sing  enough!  A  happy 
medium  between  these  two  extremes  is  the  ideal 
achievement.  It  is  not  enough  for  a  singer  to  be 
merely  a  virtuoso.  He  must,  in  addition,  be  an 
artist. 

I  try  to  teach  my  pupils  at  Cabrieres  something 
beside  the  pure  technique  of  their  profession.  An 
artist  worthy  of  that  high  title  must  not  only  have 
a  complete  command  of  his  instrument.  He  must 
not  only  have  a  mastery  of  the  difficult  arts  of  dic- 
tion, breath  control,  declamation,  tone  production, 
the  colouration  of  tones — in  fact,  of  everji;hing  that 
might  be  called  the  mechanical  side  of  singing.  He 
must  also,  and  above  all,  possess  a  high  intelligence, 
a  well-informed  mind,  a  sensitive  and  generous 
heart! 

It  is  not,  of  course,  possible  to  give  these  quali- 
ties to  those  who  have  not  got  them,  any  more  than 
one  can  cultivate  a  voice  that  does  not  exist!  On 
tlie  other  hand,  just  as  the  hidden  qualities  of  a 
crude  young  singer  may  be  brought  out  and  devel- 
oped by  an  experienced  master,  so  the  young  intelli- 
gence can  be  stimulated  to  greater  activity.    These 

231 


^  MY  LIFE 

young  people  can  be  taught  to  read  intelligently, 
to  study,  to  think.  They  can  be  shown  how  greatly 
a  Well-equipped  brain  will  assist  them  in  their 
careers.  Their  minds  and  souls  can  be  opened  to 
a  wider  understanding. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  am  always  glad  to 
have  my  pupils  stay  with  me  at  Cabrieres,  for  there, 
in  a  daily  and  hourly  intimacy,  I  can  show  them, 
little  by  little,  the  path  that  will  lead  toward  a 
broader  culture.  I  cannot,  of  course,  teach  them 
all  they  need,  for  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  a  pedant 
or  a  professor,  but  I  can  guide  them  to  the  sources 
of  information.  I  can  indicate  to  them  where  they 
can  find  what  they  need.  I  can  open  their  eyes  to 
a  hundred  avenues  of  interest  and  knowledge  to 
which  many  of  them  are  blind. 

I  am  often  astonished  at  the  ignorance,  the  ex- 
traordinary limitation,  of  some  of  the  young  people 
I  know.  The  past  is  a  closed  book  to  them.  Phi- 
losophy, psychology,  the  teachings  of  the  great 
leaders,  past  and  present,  are  entirely  outside  the 
field  of  their  attention.  I  wonder  sometimes  how 
these  young  people  have  the  courage  to  undertake 
an  artistic  career,  with  such  an  utter  ignorance  of 
what  has  been  accomplished  before  them,  with  so 

232 


YOUNG  SONG  BIRDS 

little  intellectual  understanding  of  the  problems 
they  will  have  to  meet  and  solve. 

"Who  was  La  Malibran?"  they  ask,  when  I  speak 
of  that  great  cantatrice  to  whom  de  Musset  wrote 
his  famous  lines. 

"Who  was  Madame  Carvalho?" 

"Was  Rachel  an  opera  singer?" 

"What  is  talent?" 

I  do  not  remember  half  the  amusing  and  absurd 
questions  I  have  been  asked — questions  that  show 
a  complete  ignorance  of  the  background  of  infor- 
mation that  is  so  extremely  important  for  an  artist 
to  have.  But  I  cannot  blame  these  young  girls  for 
their  shortcomings,  when  I  consider  how  many  ar- 
tists, even  among  those  who  have  achieved  a  cer- 
tain recognition,  are  equally  ignorant  and  unin- 
formed. As  a  group,  musicians  have  often  been 
accused  of  being  limited  in  their  outlook  and  lack- 
ing in  general  culture.  An  incident  comes  to  my 
mind  which  bears  out  this  accusation  only  too  well. 

The  barytone  who  sang  Escamillo,  the  bull 
fighter,  in  one  of  the  early  productions  of  "Car- 
men," was  one  of  those  singers  whose  power  of 
lungs  far  surpassed  his  intellectual  grasp  of  his 
role.     It  was  noticed  by  those  who  watched  the 

233 


MY  LIFE 

rehearsals  of  the  opera  that  he  stalked  through  his 
last  scenes  in  a  most  tragic  and  solemn  manner. 
At  the  moment  in  the  opera  when  the  Toreador 
has  won  the  love  of  Carmen  and  is  full  of  con- 
fidence of  his  approaching  victory  in  the  arena,  the 
dejected  and  unhappy  demeanour  of  the  singer  was 
particularly  absurd. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  exclaimed  Carvalho,  who 
was  directing  the  rehearsal.  "Why  are  you  so 
gloomy?    Don't  you  know  this  is  a  gay,  triumphant 

The  singer  drew  himself  up  with  supreme  dig- 
nity. 

"I  always  make  my  interpretation  in  accordance 
with  the  words,"  he  answered  haughtily.  "Does  it 
not  say,  'Toreador,  beware.  A  black  eye  is  watch- 
mg  you  { 

"Yes,  yes!  Certainly!"  agreed  Carvalho.  "But 
I  don't  see  why  that  should  make  you  unhappy. 
To  whose  eye  do  you  think  the  song  refers?" 

"Whose  eye?"  exclaimed  the  singer,  indignantly. 
"Am  I  not  supposed  to  be  acting  the  part  of  a  bull 
fighter  in  this  opera?  Whose  eye,  indeed!  Why, 
the  bull's  eye,  of  course!" 

This  poor  man  was  unusually  dense.    Yet  it  is 

234 


Cai.vk   as   -Mkssai  ine 


YOUNG  SONG  BIRDS 

surprising  how  often  almost  equally  absurd  mis- 
takes are  made.  Such  ignorance  is  a  very  serious 
handicap  for  a  singer  who  wishes  to  reach  a  really 
high  goal  in  the  operatic  world.  No  musical  as- 
pirant can  afford  to  neglect  his  general  education 
and  studies.  No  matter  how  taxing  his  technical 
training  may  be,  other  studies  must  be  followed  at 
the  same  time.  History,  literature,  languages — 
all  these  are  essential  to  the  development  of  an  inter- 
esting artistic  career. 

I  have  seen  musicians  who  have  gained  a  certain 
popularity  and  success  through  mere  technical  pro- 
ficiency. But  the  really  great  creative  geniuses  that 
I  have  had  the  privilege  of  knowing  have  all  been 
highly  cultivated  and  intellectual  people.  I  try 
to  make  my  pupils  realise  these  almost  self- 
evident  truths.  I  show  them  why,  from  a  per- 
fectly practical  point  of  view,  a  knowledge  of 
history  and  costume  through  the  ages  is  of  inesti- 
mable value  in  the  interpretation  of  operatic  roles 
and  even  of  simple  songs. 

When,  for  instance,  I  was  studying  a  role  such 
as  that  of  Messalina  in  de  Lara's  opera  of  that 
name,  I  steeped  myself  in  the  classic  literature  that 
bore  on  the  period.    I  studied  the  historic  relics  of 

235 


MY  LIFE 

that  epoch  of  Roman  history,  and  strove  to  recreate 
in  my  mind,  not  only  a  picture  of  the  Empress  her- 
self but  of  the  background  in  which  she  moved. 

When  Salignac  was  called  upon  to  act  the  part  of 
Christ  in  an  opera  built  upon  the  story  of  Mary 
Magdalene,  he  purchased  photographs  of  all  the 
paintings  by  the  great  masters  in  which  the  head  of 
Our  Saviour  appeared.  He  procured  hundreds 
of  these  pictures  from  many  different  countries. 
He  read  and  re-read  the  New  Testament,  and 
absorbed  himself  so  completely  in  his  subject  that 
he  was  finally  able  to  present  a  most  touching  and 
impressive  interpretation  of  the  role.  It  is  only  by 
such  careful  and  conscientious  studies  as  these  that 
a  singer  can  hope  to  lift  his  achievements  above 
the  dead  level  of  mediocrity. 

Sometimes  in  the  evenings  at  Cabrieres,  we  try 
out  the  ideas  and  suggestions  we  have  been  discuss- 
ing during  the  day. 

"Take  this  song,  which  originated  in  the  Middle 
Ages,"  I  sometimes  say  to  one  of  my  pupils.  "Sing 
it  for  me,  and  give  me  your  idea  of  how  it  should 
be  done." 

If  she  has  studied  her  history  well,  she  will  sing 
the  song  with  the  dignity  and  restraint  which  it 

236 


YOUNG  SONG  BIRDS 

demands.  She  will  make  us  feel  that  she  is  carrying 
the  tall  veil-draped  coif  of  the  period.  She  will 
hold  herself  straight  and  still,  as  though  she  were 
encased  in  heavy  brocaded  garments  falling  stiffly 
to  the  floor. 

When  my  pupils  are  tired  of  trying  these  experi- 
ments themselves,  I  take  my  place  beside  the  piano 
and,  with  such  art  as  I  have  learned  through 
many  years  of  study  and  practice,  I  illustrate  to 
them  how  a  whole  period  or  atmosphere  can  be 
evoked  by  an  inflexion,  a  gesture,  the  delicate  shad- 
ing of  a  tone,  the  slightest  change  in  expression  of 
voice  or  features. 

We  have  many  discussions  on  music  and  art  and 
on  the  interpretation  of  various  well-known  arias 
or  songs.  One  evening  a  friend  of  mine  was  pres- 
ent when  we  were  discussing  Beethoven.  In  the 
course  of  the  conversation  I  sang  one  of  his  mar- 
vellous songs,  which  was  greeted  by  my  friend  with 
some  displeasure. 

"My  dear  Calve!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  seem  to 
forget  that  Beethoven  is  a  classic!  You  sang  that 
song  with  too  much  feeling,  too  much  temperament. 
You  should  be  more  restrained!" 

"Do  you  remember  what  Busoni  said  on  this  sub- 

237 


MY  LIFE 

ject?"  I  rejoined.  "Surely  you  will  accept  the  ver- 
dict of  that  distinguished  musician,  even  if  you 
doubt  my  ability  to  interpret  the  master!  Busoni 
said  that  the  classics  were  killed  by  respect!" 

Indeed,  I  am  convinced  that  Beethoven  and  Mo- 
zart and  the  other  immortals  did  not  write  their 
masterpieces  for  the  delight  of  musical  pedants  and 
professors  of  rhythm!  It  is  a  great  mistake  to 
think  that  they  should  be  interpreted  with  sys- 
tematic coldness  and  so-called  "classic"  manner- 
isms. Beethoven,  so  tragic,  so  human!  How  can 
any  one  sing  his  music  coldly? 

When  we  are  finally  tired  of  singing  and  talking, 
we  have  lessons  in  "deportment"  and  stage  bear- 
ing. We  make  experiments  in  the  gentle  art  of 
walking  across  a  stage. 

What  is  more  expressive  than  a  walk!  The 
swing  and  swagger  of  Carmen,  the  modest  forth- 
right steps  of  Marguerite,  the  wandering,  hesitant 
stumbling  of  poor  Ophelia,  the  gay  and  mincing 
carriage  of  the  eighteenth-century  coquette  as  she 
ruffles  along  in  her  flowing  skirts — each  gesture  is 
vividly  suggestive  of  the  character  portrayed. 
Grace  of  carriage,  dignity,  complete  and  easy  con- 
trol of  every  movement  are  essential  to  the  aspirant 

238 


YOUNG  SONG  BIRDS 

for  dramatic  laurels.  For  this  reason,  outdoor  exer- 
cise, swimming,  walking,  everything  that  tends  to 
develop  and  strengthen  the  body,  are  most  valuable. 

Singing,  study,  exercise,  fill  the  days  at  Ca- 
brieres.  Nor  do  we  neglect  the  sister  arts.  The  eye 
must  be  trained  as  well  as  the  ear.  A  sensitiveness 
to  line  and  colour  should  be  cultivated  as  well  as 
an  appreciation  of  literature  and  poetry.  I  never 
fail  to  take  my  pupils  on  one  or  two  excursions  to 
such  neighbouring  towns  and  cities  as  can  boast  art 
galleries  or  museums.  We  go  to  Montpellier,  to 
Aries,  sometimes  as  far  afield  as  Italy,  whose  rich 
heritage  of  art  is  a  never-ending  source  of  pleasure 
and  stimulation.  It  is  a  keen  delight  to  me  to  share 
the  fresh  enthusiasm  of  these  young  girls,  to  see 
again  through  their  eyes  the  marvels  of  painting 
and  of  sculpture,  the  wonders  and  delights  of  the 
Italian  Renaissance. 

"You  have  told  us  a  great  many  interesting 
things,"  a  pupil  said  to  me  one  day.  "You  have 
talked  of  singing,  of  study,  of  music,  of  art  and  of 
religion.  But  which  of  these  many  things  is  most 
important  f  What,  above  all,  is  necessary  in  order 
to  become  a  great  singer  f 

239 


MY  LIFE 

"My  child,"  I  answered,  "in  order  to  sing  really 
well,  one  must  believe  in  God  I" 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  my  young  friend.  "That  is  why 
you  talk  to  us  so  often  of  le  hon  Dieu!" 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "That  is  indeed  the  reason! 
I  do  most  sincerely  believe  that  religion  is  of  tre- 
mendous and  fundamental  importance  in  the  life 
of  every  individual.  The  strength,  the  fire,  the 
flame  which  transform  mere  vocalisation  into  a 
transcendent,  moving  force,  come  to  us  from  a 
Higher  Power.  We  must  keep  ourselves  in  hum- 
ble communion  with  that  Power  if  we  are  to  re- 
ceive its  blessing.  That  is  why  I  say  that  those 
who  wish  to  sing  with  more  than  average  skill  must 
keep  their  faith  pure  and  strong  I" 


M 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A  DAY  AT  HOME 

Y  life  at  Cabrieres  is,  as  I  have  said  before, 
very  simple  and  restful.  To  me,  it  is  the 
happiest  life  in  all  the  world.  I  have  many  small 
duties  there  that  fill  the  day  with  lively  interest. 
First  of  all,  there  is  the  farm  to  run — a  responsi- 
bility which  falls  on  my  shoulders  now  that  my 
father  is  no  longer  there  to  administer  it,  as  he  did 
so  wisely  for  many  years.  The  farm  gives  me  many 
early  morning  cares,  as  those  who  have  ever  strug- 
gled with  the  problems  of  planting  and  reaping, 
of  vine  culture  and  wine  making,  can  well  under- 
stand. I  have  to  rise  betimes  and  go  out  in  to  the 
fresh,  cool  morning  dews  to  decide  on  many  affairs 
of  importance  in  consultation  with  my  two  faithful 
farmers. 

First  of  all,  however,  there  is  the  household  to 
attend  to.  Quickly,  quickly,  I  fly  into  my  clothes — 
whatever  is  at  hand.  A  skirt,  a  waist,  a  shawl  from 
"Carmen,"  a  Mexican  sombrero!  I  care  little  what 
I  put  on,  for  here  I  am  a  housekeeper,  a  farmer, 

241 


MY  LIFE 

and  the  vanities  of  dress  are  nothing  to  me.  The 
results  are  sometimes  absurd,  and  my  friends  and 
pupils  laugh  at  me  when  I  appear  in  too  unpre- 
cedented a  combination  of  opera  costumes  and 
civilian  clothes.  But  with  so  many  important  re- 
sponsibilities, what  is  one  to  do?  I  cannot  stop  to 
prink  before  the  mirror,  when  important  matters 
such  as  orders  for  the  week's  marketing  or  the  price 
of  a  calf  have  to  be  attended  to! 

Before  ten,  all  the  important  details  of  the  house 
are  dispatched,  and  I  am  ready  for  my  pupils,  if 
I  have  any  with  me,  or  for  letters  and  business  if 
I  am  alone.  After  lunch  I  am  out  again  in  the 
fields  or  the  garden.  Ah,  the  garden  1  It  is  as 
great  a  joy  to  me  now  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  my 
childhood.  What  a  delight  to  keep  the  terraced 
spaces  green  and  flowering  through  the  summer 
season!  What  pleasure  to  see  some  well-planned 
colour  scheme  blossom  into  reality!  I  still  love 
best  of  all  the  old-fashioned  flowers  that  used  to 
delight  me  in  my  aunt's  garden  many  years  ago; 
and  here  in  my  own  borders  and  plots,  I  have  made 
them  grow  again. 

The  vegetable  garden  is  even  more  necessary, 
and  almost  as  interesting!    I  do  not  know  of  which 

242 


A    Hoo:\r   ix   Tin:   CirAXKAr   of   C.\TtRii:Rrs 


TiiK  Chateau   ok  Cabrierfs 


A  DAY  AT  HOME 

I  am  most  proud — my  roses  or  my  cabbages  I  Is 
there  any  satisfaction  as  great  as  that  of  seeing  one's 
table  spread  with  the  produce  of  one's  own  land, 
the  rich  reward  of  generous  nature  for  our  care 
and  tending  of  the  soil? 

When  I  am  working  in  my  garden,  or  watching 
with  solicitous  eye  the  gradual  ripening  of  the  pur- 
ple grapes,  when  I  am  absorbed  in  my  farm  and  my 
country  occupations,  I  forget  completely  that  I 
have  any  other  life. 

"Who  is  that  alien  figure  that  walks  and  ges- 
tures on  a  painted  stage?"  I  wonder  to  myself: 
"Who  is  that  creature  clothed  in  curious  garments, 
a  gypsy  girl,  an  empress,  or  a  slave?  Is  it  really  I?" 

No,  rather,  this  is  myself.  Here  under  the  wide 
heavens,  in  touch  with  simple,  vital  things,  I  am 
more  truly  I. 

It  is  the  sunset  hour.  For  a  moment  I  stand, 
looking  out  over  the  peaceful  plains,  watching  the 
heavens  glow  into  incomparable  colour.  I  hear  the 
shepherd  boys  returning  from  the  distant  pastures, 
driving  their  sheep  before  them.  The  familiar 
sounds  rise  in  the  quiet  air — the  music  of  cowbells, 
the  lowing  of  cattle,  the  rustle  and  twitter  of  birds 
settling  for  the  night  in  their  nests,  and  nearer  and 

243 


MY  LIFE 

(ever  nearer  the  voices  of  the  shepherd  boys  chanting 
their  evening  songs. 

I  take  up  the  refrain,  and  as  my  voice  rises  to 
the  sky,  leaping  free  and  joyous  toward  the  many- 
tinted  zenith,  I  realise  that  I  am,  after  all,  two 
people!  That  distant  figure  moving  in  a  phantom 
world  is  indeed  myself,  for  she  is  singing  as  I  am, 
only  she  sings  in  crowded  halls  and  before  huge 
audiences.  The  sound  of  my  voice  reminds  me 
of  that  other  world  from  which  I  have  just  come 
and  to  which  I  will  inevitably  return,  no  matter 
how  much  delight  I  feel  in  my  country  freedom 
and  occupations.  The  great  world  of  cities,  of 
striving  and  accomplishment,  the  world  where  art 
and  music  reign,  the  fascinating  centres  of  thought 
and  culture  call  me.  Indeed,  I  am  two  people,  for 
I  can  enjoy  with  equal  intensity  the  peace  of  my 
hills  and  the  noisy,  throbbing  vitality  of  New  York. 

With  my  thoughts  still  occupied  with  visions  of 
distant  places  that  the  sound  of  my  songs  has  called 
to  my  mind,  I  go  into  the  nouse  and  turn  to  a  room 
which  I  have  kept  as  a  repository  of  many  sou- 
venirs of  my  artistic  life.  All  my  costumes  are 
there,  for  I  have  never  had  the  courage  to  throw 
any  of  them  away,  and  so  in  this  room  at  Cabrieres 

244. 


A  DAY  AT  HOME 

I  have  collected  a  strange  group  of  ghostly  lay 
figures,  each  dressed  in  one  of  the  costumes  in  which 
1  have  appeared  on  the  stage. 

There  they  stand,  the  husks  of  all  my  roles — 
Carmen,  Marguerite,  Juliet,  Ophelia,  La  Navar- 
raise,  Sappho,  Santuzza!  These  fading  rags 
and  ribbons,  these  chiffons,  velvets,  tarnished 
cloth-of-gold,  seem  to  exhale  a  romantic  fragrance. 
The  very  atmosphere  of  the  theatre  clings  to  their 
motionless  folds — the  dust  of  the  stage,  the  smell 
of  grease  paint,  the  glare  of  flaring  gas  over  a  dis- 
ordered dressing  table,  the  heavy  perfume  of  flow- 
ers, the  orchestra,  the  footlights,  the  public,  warm 
and  welcoming!  I  seem  to  see  and  feel  it  all  again, 
as  I  stand  in  the  gloaming,  among  the  fragile  relics 
of  my  youth. 

Coloured  fabrics  and  the  texture  of  materials 
have  always  had  a  tremendous  fascination  for  me. 
It  is  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  that  my  hobby — my 
violon  d'Ingre,  as  we  call  it  in  France — is  the  cos- 
tuming of  dolls.  I  cannot  see  a  bit  of  bright  rib- 
bon, a  scrap  of  lace,  a  discarded  trifle  of  adorn- 
ment, without  longing  to  turn  it  into  a  miniature 
costume. 

I  have  dressed  hundreds  of  dolls,  and  what  fun 

245 


MY  LIFE 

it  has  been !  Best  of  all  are  the  cries  of  delight  from 
ray  young  friends  to  whom  I  have  presented  them. 
During  the  war,  I  turned  this  pastime  to  account 
for  raising  money  for  the  wounded.  The  dolls  I 
dressed  were  sold  for  the  benefit  of  war-time  or- 
ganisations. I  gave  a  number  to  the  Lafayette 
Fund  in  New  York,  and  they  were  sold  at  auction 
or  raffled  off.  One  of  them,  I  was  told,  brought 
some  four  thousand  dollars.  She  was  the  prize  in 
a  lottery  at  a  dollar  a  ticket,  and  certainly  she 
earned  a  noble  sum  for  a  good  cause! 

I  have  had  one  regret  in  the  pursuit  of  this 
amusement  of  mine.  I  have  been  grieved  and  hor- 
rified at  the  ugliness  of  the  manufactured  dolls. 
Why,  oh  why,  should  they  be  so  hideous,  so  staring, 
so  inhuman?  Especially  is  this  true  of  the  dolls 
made  since  the  war.  They  have  become  even  uglier 
than  before.  I  have  often  wished  that  I  had  a 
sculptor's  art  and  could  model  or  carve  in  wood 
figures  as  charming,  as  delicious,  as  the  little  stat- 
uettes of  the  eighteenth  century.  Truly,  these  fig- 
urines are  gems  of  delicate  workmanship,  full  of 
grace  and  redolent  of  the  atmosphere  of  their  day. 

How  delightful  it  would  be  if  this  art  were  re- 
vived!    I  have  often  imagined  a  charming  group 

246 


A  DAY  AT  HOME 

of  miniature  portrait  figures  which  should  be  made 
to  represent  all  the  leading  artists  of  to-day,  clothed 
in  the  costumes  of  their  most  popular  roles,  ar- 
ranged in  appropriate  settings  and  groups.  What 
a  fascinating  toyland  such  a  collection  would  make ! 
It  would  be,  at  the  same  time,  a  most  valuable  his- 
toric record.  Our  descendants,  reading  of  the  great 
Sarah  Bernhardt,  would  be  able  to  see  her  tiny 
effigy,  clothed  in  the  costume  of  Dona  Sol  in  Vic- 
tor Hugo's  "Hernani,"  or  Henry  Irving  as  Ham- 
let, or  Caruso  as  Pagliacci.  In  fact,  all  the  leading 
figures  of  the  era  could  be  thus  immortalised.  What 
an  interesting  and  entertaining  occupation  it  would 
be  to  create  such  a  museum! 

The  day  is  over  at  Cabrieres,  and  the  long  eve- 
ning of  uninterrupted  quiet  is  at  hand.  These  are 
the  hours  that  can  be  devoted  to  reading,  if  the 
house  is  not  full  of  pupils  or  guests.  I  have  read 
a  good  deal,  on  a  great  variety  of  subjects.  Mys- 
ticism, theosophy,  everything  that  pertains  to  the 
spiritual  life  interests  me  above  all  else.  Since  my 
earliest  childhood,  I  have  been  deeply  religious. 
My  life  has  brought  me  into  contact  with  one  or 
two  great  souls — the  Swami  Vivi  Kananda,  of 
whom  I  have  already  spoken,  and  others  whose 

247 


MY  LIFE 

teaching  and  example  have  meant  much  in  my  spir- 
itual development.  It  is  in  a  deep  and  sincere  re- 
ligious faith  that  I  have  found  strength  and  courage 
to  live  through  a  strenuous  and  not  always  happy 
existence,  and  to  gain  in  the  end  a  certain  peace  and 
security. 


I 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

HEALTH  AND  HYGIENE 
HAVE  often  been  asked  what  methods  I  use 


to  maintain  my  health  and  my  voice  through 
the  long  and  arduous  years  of  my  career.  Of  my 
voice,  what  can  I  say?  It  is  a  mysterious,  a  heavenly 
visitor  that  has  deigned  to  take  up  its  abode  with 
me  for  a  little  while.  It  is  a  bird,  an  angel  from 
another  world,  my  little  sister!  I  do  not  know 
why  it  stays  with  me,  except  that  I  have  "entreated 
it"  kindly,  and  that  I  have  tried  to  be  a  not  too 
unworthy  hostess! 

As  for  my  health,  I  have  been  blessed  with  a 
strong  constitution,  and,  above  all,  I  have  always 
followed  the  simple  and  obvious  rules  of  hygiene. 
When  I  am  singing  in  opera,  I  keep  to  a  well- 
established  routine,  rising  at  seven  every  morning 
and  taking  a  long  walk  in  the  fresh  air.  On  the 
days  that  I  sing,  I  eat  my  principal  meal  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  as  do  all  singers.  If  I 
feel  very  tired  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  I 

249 


MY  LIFE 

drink  a  small  glass  of  port  or  strong  coffee  and  eat 
a  biscuit.  After  the  performance,  before  going  to 
bed,  I  drink  a  cup  of  bouillon  or  hot  milk.  I  have 
always  avoided  midnight  suppers,  which  I  con- 
sider extremely  unhealthy  after  a  long  and  fatigu- 
ing evening's  work. 

During  my  long  opera  seasons,  when  I  was  ap- 
pearing as  often  as  three  times  a  week,  I  went  to 
bed  at  nine  o'clock  on  the  nights  that  I  was  not  sing- 
ing, and  never  accepted  any  invitations  for  the  eve- 
ning. But  I  was  up  the  next  morning  betimes  for 
my  daily  walk,  which  I  did  not  omit  even  on  the 
days  that  I  sang.  It  is  due  largely  to  these  long 
walks,  and  to  the  fact  that  I  have  always  slept  with 
my  windows  wide  open,  that  my  lungs  are  in  such 
splendid  condition  to-day.  Gymnastics,  Swedish 
massage,  and  daily  exercises  are  all  excellent  for 
maintaining  bodily  health,  and  therefore  the  health 
of  that  delicate  human  instrument — the  voice. 
During  the  forty  years  of  my  musical  career,  I 
have  been  entirely  free  from  illnesses  that  affect 
the  voice  of  a  singer. 

Every  one  seems  to  imagine  that  the  life  of  an 
opera  singer  is  a  continual  and  glorious  fete,  a 
happy  existence  of  pleasure  and  ease.     How  far 

250 


HEALTH  AND  HYGIENE 

from  the  truth  is  this  glittering  myth!  Even  a 
person  as  naturally  strong  and  healthy  as  I,  would 
be  a  wreck  by  now  had  I  led  anything  like  the  kind 
of  life  that  we  are  supposed  to  indulge  in.  I  could 
never  have  survived  the  strain!  Long  before  this, 
I  would  have  lost  anything  I  might  have  had  of 
health,  strength  or  voice. 

The  layman  does  not  realise  at  all  the  amount  of 
work  involved  in  going  through  a  single  evening's 
performance.  The  tension,  nervous,  muscular  and 
mental,  is  extreme.  One  has  to  pour  out  all  one's 
energy  and  emotion  at  a  given  hour,  no  matter 
how  one  feels.  The  public  will  not  wait  I  It  is  the 
most  exacting  of  taskmasters.  In  a  role  such  as 
Carmen,  I  sing,  walk,  laugh  and  dance  for  four 
solid  hours  without  a  moment's  pause.  The  inter- 
missions between  the  acts  are  scarcely  long  enough 
to  permit  the  necessary  changes  of  costume.  There 
is  not  a  moment's  let-up,  and  it  is  hard,  sustained 
effort. 

Aside  from  the  performances  themselves,  there 
are  the  long  hours  of  study  and  the  endless  fatigue 
of  rehearsals.  I  have  practised  every  single  day  of 
my  life  since  I  began  my  musical  studies,  except,  of 
course,  when  I  have  been  actually  ill.     Lilli  Leh- 

251 


MY  LIFE 

mann  practised  for  three  hours  even  on  the  days 
when  she  was  to  sing  in  pubhe.  I  will  admit  that  I 
myself  have  never  had  the  courage  to  go  as  far  as 
that.  I  find  that  an  hour  is  all  that  I  feel  like  doing, 
and  I  think  many  will  agree  with  me. 

The  preparation  of  a  new  part  requires  the  most 
arduous  and  intense  study.  Madame  Carvalho 
used  to  say  that,  when  she  had  a  role  to  create,  she 
would  shut  herself  up  in  an  ivory  tower  of  silence 
and  isolation,  living  there  for  weeks  and  months 
together.  She  foreswore  all  pleasures  and  amuse- 
ments, refused  all  invitations,  and  remained  in  ab- 
solute retirement  until  her  studies  were  completed. 

I  used  often  to  discuss  with  her  the  difficulties  and 
problems  of  an  opera  singer's  life.  One  day,  the 
conversation  turned  upon  the  subject  of  newspaper 
criticism  and  the  effect  it  could  have  upon  an  artist's 
career. 

"I  myself  have  always  been  very  sensitive  and 
impressionable,"  the  famous  prima  donna  re- 
marked. "In  consequence,  my  husband  never  per- 
mitted me  to  read  the  newspapers.  He  would  occa- 
sionally repeat  some  of  the  pleasant  and  compli- 
mentary phrases,  but  he  omitted  the  attacks.  I 
was  not  duped  by  this  proceeding,  but  I  forced 

252 


HEALTH  AND  HYGIENE 

myself  to  believe  as  much  as  possible,  in  order  to  put 
away  from  me  anything  that  might  diminish  my 
confidence.  My  husband  was  too  deeply  interested 
in  my  welfare  not  to  wish  my  faults  corrected. 
When,  therefore,  a  just  criticism  was  made,  he 
would  draw  attention  himself  to  my  mistakes. 
Thanks  to  this  arrangement,  I  have  always  believed 
that  the  world  was  kind  and  indulgent  toward  me. 

"One  evening  at  a  reception,  I  met  a  journalist 
who  had  been  particularly  bitter  in  his  attack  on  my 
latest  creation.  I  did  not  know  what  he  had  writ- 
ten, having  only  been  told  by  my  husband  that  I  was 
to  thank  him  for  his  article.  As  soon  as  I  began 
to  express  my  appreciation  of  his  kindness  in  writ- 
ing about  me,  I  noticed  his  evident  distress  and 
embarrassment,  and  caught  the  astonished  glances 
of  my  friends.  I  realised  instantly  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

"  'Do  not  be  alarmed,'  I  said  to  him  as  pleasantly 
as  possible.  'I  have  never  read  a  single  word  that 
you  have  written.  Judging  by  your  agitation,  my 
husband  must  be  quite  right  in  helping  me  preserve 
ray  illusions.  My  illusions,  thank  you!'  I  con- 
cluded, making  a  deep  obeisance." 

Not  every  one  has  been  as  fortunate  as  Madame 

253 


MY  LIFE 

Carvalho.  Many  artists  have  suffered  cruelly  under 
the  lash  of  the  critics.  In  some  cases,  the  attitude 
of  the  press  has  had  a  very  bad  effect  upon  a  prom- 
ising career,  depressing  and  discouraging  the  bud- 
ding artist,  shaking  his  confidence  and  lowering  his 
morale.  The  famous  tenor  Nourit  killed  himself 
in  Naples  in  1850,  because  of  the  brutality  of  the 
attacks  made  upon  him  by  the  newspapers.  One  of 
the  most  charming  and  gifted  of  my  friends.  Mar- 
guerite Priola,  whose  lovely  voice  and  unusual  tal- 
ent should  have  brought  her  a  far  different  fate, 
committed  suicide  as  a  result  of  the  attitude  taken 
by  the  critics  with  regard  to  her  creation  of  a  cer- 
tain role. 

Heavens !  If  I  had  killed  myself  each  time  I  was 
adversely  criticised,  I  would  have  died  a  hundred 
deaths!  I  read  everything;  but  though  certain  re- 
marks have  hurt  me  deeply,  others  have  encouraged 
and  rewarded  me,  and  I  have  found  in  intelligent 
criticism  much  stimulation  and  food  for  thought. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ART  AND  SONG 

1~XO  I  like  my  profession,  my  art?  I  adore  it! 
•*— ^  Would  I  go  on  the  operatic  stage  again,  had 
I  to  begin  my  life  over?  Ah,  yes,  indeed!  It  is  an 
honourable,  a  noble  calling,  if  it  is  lived  with  dig- 
nity and  worth. 

Though  glory  may  be,  as  Madame  de  Stael  has 
said,  an  empty  statue  made  of  bronze,  yet  it  has 
moments  of  such  intense,  such  overwhelming  joy, 
that  no  one  who  has  once  experienced  them  can 
ever  forget.  Success,  achievement,  victory!  Of 
what  tremendous,  transcendent  emotions  you  are 
the  expression  and  the  cause! 

The  greatest  fascination  of  success  lies,  for  me, 
in  the  periods  of  exaltation  which  precede  and  ac- 
company it.  In  those  moments,  it  is  as  though  I 
became  a  supernormal  being.  I  am  no  longer  alone. 
I  become  multiple.  The  power  and  strength  of 
many  is  mine.  I  am  no  longer  conscious  of  an 
individual  existence,  but  I  find  myself  swept  along 

255 


MY  LIFE 

by  a  torrential  will,  demanding  expression,  pour- 
ing itself  out  in  a  passionate,  unstinted  flood. 

Sometimes,  when  I  am  very  tired,  I  try  to  save 
myself.  I  hold  back.  The  result  is  disastrous.  I 
feel  so  diminished,  so  small,  that  I  cannot  bear  it. 
I  must  throw  myself  once  more  into  the  stream, 
giving — giving  of  my  strength  and  energy.  It  is 
always  the  same.  The  more  I  spend,  the  more  I 
have  to  spend! 

What  a  mysterious  thing  is  "temperament,"  that 
combination  of  qualities,  that  emanation  of  per- 
sonality, which  plays  so  important  a  part  in  artistic 
expression  I  The  word  has  been  overworked  to  such 
an  extent  that  it  has  lost  much  of  its  force,  espe- 
cially in  English,  and  yet  it  expresses  an  intan- 
gible something  difficult  to  describe  in  any  other 
way  and  usually  essential  to  a  successful  dramatic 
career. 

I  suppose  it  is  this  which  carries  me  so  deeply 
into  whatever  part  I  may  be  acting  that  I  become 
one  with  the  character  I  am  impersonating.  The 
moment  I  put  on  the  costume  and  make-up  of  Car- 
men, even  I  do  not  recognise  myself! 

"You  are  a  stranger  to  us,"  my  mother  and 
brothers  used  to  say.     "You  are  no  longer  you!" 

256 


ART  AND  SONG 

This  absorption  of  one's  personality  in  a  role 
requires  adaptability,  a  chameleonlike  change  of 
one's  whole  aspect  and  being.  I  have  always  been 
fascinated  by  these  changes.  I  have  studied  and 
interpreted  the  greatest  diversity  of  characters  and 
types,  as  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  I  am  prob- 
ably the  only  woman  who  has  sung  Carmen  and 
Ophelia  in  the  same  week — two  roles  which  are 
totally  dissimilar,  both  in  characterisation  and  in 
tessitura. 

I  have  already  mentioned  some  of  my  methods 
of  study  in  developing  the  role  of  Carmen.  I  have 
described  my  visit  to  Granada,  and  my  observa- 
tion of  the  gypsies  in  their  homes  and  at  their  work 
in  the  cigarette  factories.  The  role  of  Ophelia 
required  a  more  painful  investigation.  I  was  de- 
termined to  understand  thoroughly  the  psychology 
of  the  part,  and  so  I  discussed  Ophelia's  char- 
acter and  experiences  with  an  eminent  alienist, 
whose  profession  had  brought  him  into  contact  with 
many  similar  cases.  He  described  to  me  in  detail 
the  various  instances  of  insanity  that  had  come 
under  his  observation.  Many  of  them  were  of  the 
same  type  as  that  to  which  Ophelia  is  supposed 
to  have  succumbed.    One  day  he  asked  me  whether 

257 


MY  LIFE 

I  wished  to  see  such  a  case,  assuring  me  that  my 
visit  to  the  asylum,  though  it  might  be  distressing  to 
me,  would  give  the  poor  girl  who  was  confined  there 
a  certain  amount  of  pleasure.  This  unfortunate 
young  woman  had  lost  her  reason  as  a  result  of  a 
disastrous  love  affair  and  was  under  the  care  of  my 
friend.  I  finally  decided  to  go  with  him  and  the 
memory  of  that  visit  still  remains  vividly  in  my 
mind.  It  was  heartrending,  terrible,  yet  I  believe 
that  I  was  able  to  interpret  the  role  of  Ophelia  with 
greater  sympathy  and  understanding  than  I  could 
possibly  have  achieved  had  I  avoided  this  painful 
experience.  How  often,  as  I  acted  the  mad  scene 
in  "Hamlet,"  have  I  thought  of  that  poor  girl  and 
her  pitiful  condition. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  things,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  dramatic  interpretation,  that  I  have 
done  was  to  sing  the  three  Marguerites — that  of 
Gounod's  "Faust,"  of  Berlioz'  "Damnation  de 
Faust"  and  of  Boito's  "Mefistofele,"  all  in  the  same 
season. 

I  did  this  at  Monte  Carlo,  where  I  sang  for  a 
number  of  years,  during  the  season,  with  Renaud, 
Tamagno,  Chaliapin  and  many  other  distinguished 
artists.    It  amused  me  to  interpret  these  three  Mar- 

258 


ART  AND  SONG 

guerites  in  succession,  for  each  one  has  a  strong 
individuality  and  character  of  her  own.  I  brought 
out  the  different  conceptions  of  the  three  composers 
by  my  different  manner  of  singing,  acting  and  cos- 
tuming each  part.  Gounod's  Marguerite  is  an  in- 
nocent young  girl,  simple,  naive  and  charming. 
The  music  is  melodious  and  full  of  youth  and  senti- 
ment. Boito's  heroine  is  very  human,  more  pas- 
sionate and  profound  than  that  of  Gounod.  Ber- 
lioz' creation  breathes  the  atmosphere  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  it  is  mediicval,  romantic  in  tone  and  feel- 
ing. With  the  assistance  of  scenery  and  costume  the 
differentiation  of  these  characteristics  was  not  as 
difficult  as  it  would  be  without  these  accessories. 
It  had  often  occurred  to  me,  however,  that  it  might 
be  interesting  to  attempt  this  delineation  on  the 
concert  stage.  In  one  of  my  recent  concerts  in  New 
York  I  made  this  experiment,  singing  the  three 
principal  arias  from  these  three  operas  one  after  the 
other.  There  is  a  fascination  in  thus  evoking  on 
the  bare  boards  of  the  concert  stage  the  whole  at- 
mosphere and  individuality  of  a  character,  partic- 
ularly interesting  when,  as  in  this  case,  the  heroine 
portrayed  is  the  same,  the  diflt'erences  being  entirely 
in  the  composer's  interpretation  of  a  great  poem. 

259 


MY  LIFE 

All  opera  singers  who  possess,  as  do  I,  a  very 
wide  range  of  voice,  have  had  the  amusing  experi- 
ence of  singing  several  parts  in  the  same  opera.  In 
the  case  of  Marguerite  I  sang  the  same  character  in 
three  different  operas!  In  Mozart's  "Noces  de 
Figaro"  and  in  Massenet's  "Herodiade,"  to  men- 
tion only  the  first  two  that  come  to  my  mind,  I  sang 
several  roles  in  the  same  opera!  Massenet's  "Hero- 
diade" was  launched  in  Brussels  the  year  of  my 
debut  and  I  sang  Herodias  there  and  later  Salome. 
During  my  early  years  in  Brussels  and  Paris  I 
sang  all  three  soprano  parts  in  "Figaro":  Cheru- 
bin,  Susanna  and  the  Countess. 

In  my  long  operatic  career  I  have  created  a  great 
number,  as  well  as  a  great  variety,  of  roles.  Some 
of  them  like  Mascagni's  "Amico  Fritz,"  and  Mas- 
senet's "Sappho"  and  "La  Navarraise"  have  be- 
come part  of  the  repertoires  of  the  leading  opera 
houses  all  over  the  world.  Others  such  as  "Aben- 
Hamet,"  "Le  Chevalier  Jean,"  "Flora  Mirabilio," 
and  de  Lara's  "Amy  Robsart"  and  "Messaline," 
have  rarely  been  heard  in  America.  I  have  sung  in 
scores  of  opera  which  have  been  popular  in  Europe 
at  one  time  or  another;  "Lalla  Roukh"  by  Feli- 
cien  David,  "Le  Songe  d'une  Nuit  d'Ete"  by  Am- 

260 


ABT  AND  SONG 

broise  Thomas,  "Le  Roi  d'Ys"  by  Lalo,  "La  Nuit 
de  Cleopatre"  by  Victor  Masse,  and  so  many  others 
that  the  hst  becomes  tedious  1 

Of  Bizet's  productions,  beside  the  all  too  famous 
"Carmen,"  I  have  sung  Leila  in  the  "Pecheurs  de 
Perles,"  introducing  it  to  New  York  at  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House  in  1896.  I  have  also  appeared 
in  his  charming  little  opera  "Djamileh,"  full  of 
grace  and  sentiment,  and  in  "La  Jolie  Fille  de 
Perth,"  both  of  which  I  sang  in  Italy.  Among  the 
operas  which  are  familiar  to  the  American  public, 
beside  those  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  in  the 
course  of  this  story,  I  have  sung  Lucia  in  Doni- 
zetti's "Luca  di  Lammermoor,"  Amina  in  the 
"Sonnambula"  of  Bellini,  "Lakme"  by  Delibes, 
Pamina  in  INIozart's  "Magic  Flute,"  and  so  forth  I 
I  cannot  even  remember  them  all,  yet  how  many 
transformations  and  changes  they  represent,  how 
many  pages  of  music,  how  many  lines  of  verse  and 
prose  memorised  I 

All  this  means  study  and  hard  work,  for  there 
is  no  short  cut  to  acquiring  a  part.  One  cannot 
learn  a  role  by  sleeping  on  the  score!  Intense  con- 
centrated effort  is  needed  for  the  mere  process  of 
committing  to  memory  words  and  music.    Yet  this 

261 


MY  LIFE 

is  perhaps  the  easiest  part  of  the  work.  In  addi- 
tion, one  must  study  the  character,  the  play,  the 
period,  in  order  to  form  an  idea  of  the  opera  as  a 
whole.  Then  each  act,  each  scene,  and  finally  each 
phrase  and  expression  must  be  intelligently  de- 
veloped so  that  in  the  end  a  living  and  consistent 
character  may  be  presented  to  the  public. 

I  have  always  been  extremely  observant  and  this 
characteristic  has  been  most  useful  to  me  in  my 
artistic  career.  I  am  always  watching  for  some  new 
idea.  Even  the  slightest  suggestion,  the  most  in- 
significant detail,  may  be  rich  in  possibility,  if  one 
is  on  the  alert  for  information  and  ideas.  As  a 
young  girl  I  used  to  watch  the  great  singers  and 
actors  of  the  day  with  avid  interest  and  curiosity, 
trying  to  understand  their  methods  of  obtaining  a 
given  effect,  eager  to  pick  up  every  crumb  of  in- 
formation that  might  fall  from  the  rich  board  of 
their  achievement.  I  try,  now,  to  make  my  pupils 
realise  how  much  more  constructive  and  helpful  it 
is  to  observe  the  good  qualities  in  a  performance 
rather  than  the  bad.  It  is  easy  to  criticise,  but  in 
the  act  of  dwelling  on  the  faults  of  another  person 
one  may  be  engraving  these  very  defects  on  one's 
own  mind,  and  there  is  a  danger  that  one  will  imi- 

262 


ART  AND  SONG 

tate  them  unconsciously.  It  is  much  more  useful  to 
note  the  good  points  in  an  artist's  work.  Some- 
times in  the  very  midst  of  a  poor  or  second-rate 
performance,  a  brilliant  bit  of  phrasing,  a  graceful 
gesture,  an  effective  piece  of  stage  business  will 
give  the  receptive  listener  a  new  idea. 

I  have  never  reached  a  period  in  my  career  where 
I  could  afford  to  close  my  mind  to  new  ideas  and 
impressions.  I  find  myself  to-day  as  eager  to  learn, 
as  ready  for  fresh  suggestions,  and  as  interested  in 
the  development  of  new  possibilities  as  in  my  stu- 
dent days.  There  is  a  touching  picture  by  Burne- 
Jones  of  a  blind  beggar  holding  out  his  hands,  ready 
to  receive  from  the  passer-by  anything  that  he  may 
give — gold  or  dross,  the  evil  with  the  good.  This 
seems  to  me  a  symbol  of  what  I  mean  when  I  tell 
my  pupils  that  an  artist  must  be  ready  to  receive, 
to  learn,  to  take  whatever  comes  his  way,  with  a 
willing  and  eager  acceptance,  so  that  he  may  in 
turn  give  to  the  world  a  work  of  art  that  shall  be  a 
true  reflection  of  life — a  living,  vital  creation. 

I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  good  luck  in  my  career. 
I  was  fortunate  in  coming  to  the  operatic  stage  at 
a  time  when  there  were  few  singers  whose  type  and 
temperament  fitted  them  for  the  interpretation  of 

2G3 


MY  LIFE 

such  parts  as  Carmen  and  Santuzza.  I  was 
needed  and  I  was  at  hand.  This  accounts  perhaps 
for  part  of  my  success;  hard  work,  patience  and 
perseverance  for  another  part.  And  for  the  rest, 
it  is  for  others  who  have  heard  and  seen  me  on  the 
stage  to  judge. 

My  comrades  will  understand  me  when  I  say 
that  it  requires  a  great  deal  of  character  and  de- 
termination to  stick  to  an  operatic  career.  One 
is  often  tempted  to  give  up  the  struggle — to  suc- 
cumb before  the  endless  difficulties  and  discourage- 
ments that  meet  one  at  every  turn.  One  must  have 
tenacity  of  purpose,  courage  and  unflagging  en- 
ergy, to  follow  one's  ideal  and  to  refuse  the  easier 
and  safer  courses  that  are  constantly  opening  up 
along  the  way.  For  me,  however,  no  other  career 
would  have  been  possible;  and  I  have  found  it, 
within  its  limits,  stimulating  and  rewarding. 

Life  behind  the  scenes  has  its  kindly  and  pleas- 
ant side,  as  well  as  its  hardships.  Its  pleasures 
are  very  different  from  those  that  the  popular  imag- 
ination has  created  for  us,  but  nevertheless  they 
are  not  to  be  despised.  How  many  good  friends, 
loyal  comrades  and  generous  souls  have  I  known 
among  the  inhabitants  of  the  theatrical  world!     I 

264 


ART  AND  SONG 

have  often  heard  our  brotherhood  misjudged.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  we  are  as  hard-working  and  ideal- 
istic a  group  as  will  be  found  in  any  other  pro- 
fession. 

I  have  known  the  most  devoted  fathers,  the 
most  unselfish  and  self-sacrificing  mothers  among 
stage  folk.  The  generosity  of  the  profession  is 
well  known.  Practically  every  one  of  my  comrades 
supports  a  number  of  dependent  relatives  or  un- 
fortunate friends.  It  is  considered  a  disgrace  to 
allow  any  member  of  one's  family  or  clan  to  go 
uncared  for,  no  matter  how  distant  the  connection 
may  be. 

Is  it  not  to  us  that  every  one  turns,  when  there 
is  a  question  of  raising  money  for  a  charitable  or 
philanthropic  endeavour?  Do  we  hesitate  to  give 
of  our  best  for  these  good  works,  never  counting 
how  fragile,  how  delicate  a  thing  is  the  human 
voice?  It  is  not  my  desire  to  write  a  panegyric  of 
the  profession.  But  I  think  any  one  who  has 
known  the  world  of  the  theatre  or  opera  stage  will 
agree  that,  though  we  are  not  as  gay  and  frivolous 
as  the  public  would  like  to  believe,  we  are  at  any 
rate  as  ready  as  others  to  do  our  small  share  toward 
a  better  world. 

265 


MY  LIFE 

We  have  the  reputation  of  being  superstitious. 
It  would  be  more  true  to  say  that  we  are  usually 
deeply  religious.    There  are  few  atheists  among  us. 

One  last  word  of  all,  for  the  young  girls  who 
are  bent  upon  following  an  operatic  career.  Re- 
member this:  In  spite  of  the  fascination  of  a 
dazzling  public  life,  there  is  a  destiny  more  glorious 
still — to  be  able  to  devote  yourself  exclusively  to 
that  small  audience  of  two  or  three  who  will  call 
you  by  the  dear  name  of  "mother." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

A    HAPPY    RETURN 

IT  is  not  for  me  to  speak  of  my  successes  of  to- 
day, but  as  I  turn  my  face  homeward  and  make 
ready  to  leave  for  a  while  this  great  country  of 
America,  I  am  tempted  to  dwell  for  a  moment  on 
the  months  that  have  just  passed,  months  which 
have  held  for  me  one  of  the  happiest  experiences  of 
my  life  and  have  crowned  with  success  a  long  and 
fortunate  career. 

"Life  is  courage,"  said  Balzac,  and  so  have  I 
found  all  through  my  life,  but  in  recent  years  more 
strikingly  than  ever.  Success  is  difficult  to  obtain 
and  glory  is  fugitive,  especially  for  those  whose 
art  takes  the  form  of  dramatic  or  musical  inter- 
pretation. Our  creations  dissolve  into  the  air  with- 
out leaving  a  trace.  Though  our  triumphs  may  be 
immediate  and  dazzling  beyond  those  of  any  other 
artists,  j^et  they  are  proportionately  unsubstantial 
and  evanescent.  Who  remembers  now  the  voices 
of  the  past  ^  There  remains  only  a  memory,  a  tra- 
dition, a  mere  name. 

267 


MY  LIFE 

One  day  not  long  ago  a  friend  invited  me  to  her 
house. 

"I  have  gathered  together  the  boys  and  girls  of 
the  younger  generation,"  she  said.  "I  want  them 
to  have  the  privilege  of  knowing  you  as  we  have 
known  you  in  our  day." 

When  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  that  room- 
ful of  young  beings,  not  one  of  them  over  twenty, 
when  I  saw  those  fresh  faces,  those  new  eyes,  when 
I  felt  those  glances  full  of  curiosity  and  question, 
I  realised  suddenly  the  passage  of  time!  These 
young  people  did  not  know  me  at  all,  except  by 
name.  To  them  I  was  a  stranger!  I  evoked  no 
memories,  aroused  no  happy  associations.  My 
voice  could  not  bring  them  an  emotion,  known  and 
felt  before.  I  must  satisfy  their  avid  curiosity 
as  to  whether  their  parents  had  been  right  in  lov- 
ing and  applauding  me.  Up  to  that  time  I  had 
only  thought  of  the  years  as  bringing  me,  not  a 
possible  diminution  of  power,  but  rather  a  constant 
increase  of  knowledge  and  experience,  a  firmer 
grasp  of  my  art,  and  a  more  intelligent  under- 
standing of  what  I  was  trying  to  achieve.  I  knew 
in  my  own  heart  that  I  could  really  sing  better  than 

268 


A  HAPPY  RETURN 

ever,  but  I  had  to  prove  it  to  these  young  people 
who  did  not  know  me. 

I  was  determined  to  force  their  admiration,  and 
I  was  able,  through  my  will  and  my  imagination, 
to  make  myself  their  equal,  to  become  young  again 
in  voice  and  feeling.  Xever  has  applause  sounded 
so  sweet  in  my  ears ! — never  appreciation  so  warm- 
ing to  my  heart  which  had  just  disclosed  itself  to 
these  new  friends!  It  was  like  the  old  days  when, 
as  a  girl  of  twenty,  I  had  won  a  public  to  which  I 
was  as  yet  unknown.  The  same  thrill  of  victory, 
the  same  joy  was  mine  again! 

I  have  had  a  similar  experience  this  winter,  but 
on  a  much  larger  scale.  I  came  to  New  York 
after  an  absence  of  seven  years,  like  a  beginner 
making  her  debut.  I  had  disappeared.  I  was 
dead,  perhaps,  for  all  the  public  knew.  I  had  to 
prove  to  the  hurrying  and  indifferent  crowd  that  I 
was  still  Calve! 

And  once  more  I  have  been  rewarded!  It  is 
not  too  much  to  say  that  I  have  been  received  with 
an  enthusiasm  and  a  warmth  of  approval,  both  by 
the  public  and  the  critics,  that  has  left  me  nothing 
to  regret.  I  have  been  applauded  and  feted  as 
in  the  most  glorious  days  of  my  operatic  career. 

269 


MY  LIFE 

I  have  been  asked  to  sing  over  and  over  again  in 
this  great  city  of  New  York,  and  as  a  substantial 
proof  of  my  victory,  I  have  been  offered  engage- 
ments not  only  for  this  winter,  but  for  many  years 
to  come.  I  have  succeeded  once  more  in  finding  my 
place  in  the  hearts  of  the  American  people. 

What  a  splendid,  what  a  great  country  is  this! 
How  happy  I  am  to  have  consecrated  to  it  the 
finest  years  of  my  career.  Here  I  find  the  same 
faithful  friends  as  of  old,  affectionate  and  cordial 
as  ever,  and  here  new  friends,  new  faces,  new  en- 
thusiasms greet  me  on  every  hand. 

Once  more  I  have  travelled  through  the  great 
West,  the  rich  and  fertile  middle  plains  of  this  mar- 
vellous country.  I  feel  myself  almost  breathless 
with  the  urge  of  energy  and  vitality  that  these  new 
cities  radiate.  They  seem  to  be  vying  with  each 
other  in  a  titanic  race  toward  some  immeasurable 
goal.  What  strength,  what  movement,  what  gigan- 
tic forces  are  at  work  in  these  growing  populations ! 
Each  town  and  city  is  determined  to  outdo  its  neigh- 
bour in  numbers,  wealth,  luxury — and  in  auto- 
mobiles ! 

The  automobiles!  Mon  Dieu,  they  seem  bigger 
and  more  numerous  than  the  houses  themselves! 

270 


A  HAPPY  RETURN 

I  have  seen,  standing  outside  the  most  modest  frame 
cottage,  cars  that  were  larger  and  undoubtedly  more 
expensive  than  the  house  itself!  Not  that  there  is 
any  lack  of  handsome  residences  in  the  Middle 
West.  Indeed,  I  have  never  beheld  such  magnifi- 
cent houses  as  certain  districts  in  some  of  these 
western  cities  can  boast.  When  I  was  motoring 
through  these  towns  and  cities  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  passed  miles  of  veritable  palaces,  each  surrounded 
by  its  garden  or  park.  In  Texas  the  wealthier  citi- 
zens have  apparently  determined  to  build  no  two 
houses  alike.  Italian  villas,  English  baronial  halls, 
Spanish  patios  and  Moorish  courts — every  type 
of  style  and  architecture  has  been  adapted  to  the 
uses  of  these  home  builders.  Yet  all  this  variety 
and  diversitj'^  is  harmonised  and  made  both  com- 
fortable and  agreeable  to  the  eye  by  the  lovely  set- 
ting of  these  dwellings,  the  lawns  and  gardens, 
and  the  tree-lined  avenues  that  surround  them. 

I  noticed  also  that  no  matter  what  period  or 
nationality  might  be  suggested  in  the  building  of  a 
house,  one  purely  American  feature  is  always  in- 
cluded— a  sleeping  porch!  Every  house  has  one 
or  two  of  these  delightful  out-door  rooms.  Indeed 
f}?^  cult  of  the  "out-of-doors"  is  very  evident  every- 

271 


MY  LIFE 

where  in  America.  The  innumerable  country  clubs, 
the  beautiful,  immaculately-kept  golf  links,  the  con-* 
stant  use  of  automobiles  for  pleasure  rides  and  "pic- 
nics," all  attest  the  fondness  of  the  average  citizen 
for  air  and  space. 

In  most  of  the  cities  that  I  have  visited  in  the 
United  States,  especially  west  of  the  Atlantic  bor- 
der, I  am  impressed  by  the  efforts  that  are  every- 
where visible  toward  beautifying  and  "improving" 
the  city  as  a  whole.  It  is  not  only  that  each  com- 
munity wishes  to  be  the  largest,  richest  and  "most 
important"  spot  in  the  state  or  country,  but  it  must 
also  be  well  planned,  well  laid  out  and  well  adorned. 
In  consequence  beautiful  boulevards  are  laid  out 
all  through  the  residential  districts;  magnificent 
stretches  of  flawless  road,  tree-shaded  and  as  broad 
as  several  ordinary  avenues,  lead  through  the  parks 
and  along  the  waterfronts.  Playgrounds  are  built 
for  the  children,  and  everything  is  done  to  bring  out 
the  advantages  of  the  natural  setting  of  each  city. 
The  public  buildings  are  particularly  imposing  and 
make  up  in  massiveness  and  white  marble  what  they 
may  lack  in  historical  significance.  Garden  cities 
are  these  cities  of  the  West,  comfortable,  clean, 

272 


A  HAPPY  RETURN 

beautiful  and  admirably  adapted  to  the  uses  of  a 
people  that  loves  fresh  air,  sunlight  and  work  I 

The  men  and  women  of  the  West  take  from  their 
country  something  of  its  magnificence  and  beauty. 
They  are  a  vigorous  people,  well  built  and  well 
endowed.  I  heard  many  lovely  natural  voices  dur- 
ing my  tour,  and  this,  together  with  the  fact  that 
many  young  girls,  in  the  East  as  well  as  the  West, 
have  come  to  me  asking  for  advice  and  assistance  in 
their  musical  studies,  has  suggested  to  me  the  pos- 
sibility of  opening  a  School  of  Singing  in  America. 
Cabrieres  cannot  take  in  all  these  aspirants! 

It  has  been  a  great  joy  to  me  to  feel  everywhere 
that  I  went  during  my  recent  tour,  a  warmer  and 
closer  sympathy  than  ever  between  myself  and  my 
audiences.  I  am  better  understood,  my  art  and  my 
endeavour  is  more  intelligently  appreciated  now 
than  ever  before.  Is  it  because,  since  the  Great 
War,  so  many  of  the  young  people  of  America  have 
been  to  France  and  have  learned  something  of  our 
language,  our  mentality,  our  ideals?  Perhaps  this 
is  the  explanation.  I  do  not  know.  All  I  can  say 
is  that  never  before  have  I  felt  so  much  at  home  in 
this  great  country.  Even  in  the  years  of  my  oper- 
atic successes,  even  amid  the  enthusiasm  and  ap- 

273 


MY  LIFE 

plause  of  those  days,  I  never  felt  as  happy,  or  as 
completely  in  sympathy  with  my  public  as  during 
my  last  stay  in  America.  Surely  between  myself 
and  these  splendid  young  people,  veritable  Cru- 
saders, true  Knights  of  Columbia,  who  came  to  help 
us  drive  out  the  enemy  from  our  dear  land  of 
France,  surely  between  us  there  is  a  warmer  cur- 
rent of  understanding,  an  affection  and  an  appre- 
ciation that  did  not  exist  before. 

It  has  been  a  source  of  happiness  to  me  to  realise 
through  my  personal  experience  this  growth  of 
sympathy  between  France,  my  own  beloved  patrie, 
and  America,  almost  as  dear,  my  second,  my 
adopted,  country.  It  is  a  joy  to  me  to  know  that 
I  shall  be  returning  many  times  to  this  great  land, 
not  merely  as  a  visitor  to  the  scenes  of  past  suc- 
cesses, but  as  one  who  still  "carries  the  torch"  and 
who,  by  example  and  perhaps  also  by  precept,  can 
bear  witness  to  the  truths  of  a  great  art. 


INDEX 


Abdul  Hamid,  Sultan  of  Tur- 
key,  147-151. 
Aben  Hamet,  40,  41. 
"Aben     Hamet,"     opera     of, 

40,  104,  260. 
Alboni,  47,  184. 
"Amico  Fritz,"  55,  63,  260. 
Amina,   Calve   sings   role   of, 

261. 
Amy   Robsart,  Calve   creates 

role  of,  87. 
"Amy    Robsart,"    opera    of, 

87,  260. 
Aveyron,   Department   of,    1, 

66,   67,    86,    119,    153-155, 

215. 

Balzac,   267. 

"Barber     of     Seville,     The," 

118,  163. 
Bataille,  230. 
Battistini,  59,  139. 
Beatrice,  Princess,  96. 
Beethoven,  237,  238. 
Bellini,  261. 
Berlioz,   258,   259. 
Bernhardt,    Sarah,    171-174, 

247. 
Bizet,    14,   65,   83,   101,    127, 

261. 
Boito,  101,  268,  269. 


Bonnier,  227,  228. 
Brisson,  Adolph,  167. 
Brussels,  31-34. 
Busoni,  237,  238. 


Cabri^res,  xii,  163-159,  197, 
216,  226-228,  231,  232, 
236,  239,  241-247. 

Calv6,  Emma,  birthplace  and 
forebears  of,  1,  2;  early 
childhood  in  Spain,  3-14; 
returns  to  France,  14;  fam- 
ily home,  15-19;  first  at- 
tempts at  artistic  expres- 
sion, 19,  20;  first  public 
appearance,  20,  21;  taken 
to  Paris  to  study  singing, 
23-30;  debut  on  concert 
stage,  27,  28;  operatic 
debut,  31-34;  studies  with 
Marchesi,  37;  debut  in 
Paris,  40,  41;  disastrous 
appearance  in  Milan,  42, 
43 ;  suflfering  and  sickness, 
44-47 ;  studies  with  Ma- 
dame Laborde,  47—55; 
Italian  tour,  65-60;  influ- 
ence of  Duse,  60,  61 ; 
studies  special  notes  with 
Mustapha,  63-65;   a  mock 


275 


INDEX 


triumph,  69-73;  tragic 
hours,  75-78;  creates  San- 
tuzza  and  Carmen  in  Paris, 
79—83;  creates  Sapho  and 
"La  Navarraise,"  84-86; 
sings  in  London  and  at 
Windsor  Palace,  87-98 ; 
first  engagement  in  New 
York,  99-101;  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  Company, 
101  —  111;  touring  in 
America,  113—124;  a  brief 
engagement  in  Spain,  125— 
129;  trips  to  Mexico  and 
Cuba,  131-138;  Russian 
audiences  139—145;  sing- 
ing for  the  Sultan,  147- 
151;  buys  Cabri^res,  153, 
154;  some  fellow  artists 
and  friends,  161-184;  in- 
fluence of  the  Swami  Vivi 
Kananda,  185  —  194;  at- 
tends fete  given  to  Mis- 
tral, 195-200;  travels 
around  the  world,  201-212; 
war  experiences,  213—223; 
on  the  teaching  of  singing, 
225-240;  daily  life  at  Ca- 
bri^res,  241-248;  an  opera- 
singer's  life,  249—254;  art 
and  the  interpretation  of 
roles,  256-266;  a  happy 
return  to  the  United 
States,  267-274. 
Calve,  father  of,  3,  23,  102, 
110,  163,  164,  198,  241. 


Calve,  mother  of,  3,  4-14,  28, 
24,  27-29,  70-73. 

Carmen,  Calve's  interpreta- 
tion of,  influenced  by  early 
experience,  13,  14;  Calve 
creates  role  of,  80—83; 
Calve  sings  in  New  York, 
99-102,  116,  124,  128,  129, 
136,  145,  151,  168,  178- 
181,  234,  238,  245,  251, 
266,  257,  264. 

"Carmen,"  opera  of,  63,  80, 
99-102,  116,  127,  136,  141, 
147,  149,  178,  233,  241, 
261. 

Caruso,  164-169,  247. 

Carvalho,  41,  79,  234. 

Carvalho,  Madame,  41,  196, 
233,  252-254. 

Castelmary,  106,  107. 

"Cavalleria  Rusticana,"  79- 
81,  90,  95,  99,  100,  107, 
108,  118,  127. 

Chaliapin,  258. 

Cherubin,  Calve  sings  role  of, 
32,  33,  41,  260. 

Cherubini,  47. 

"Chevalier,  Jean,  Le,"  Calve 
creates  leading  role  in,  41, 
260. 

Cleveland,  Mrs.  Grover,  122. 

Constant,  Benjamin,  104, 157. 

Coquelin,  100. 

Costanzi  Theater,  63. 

Countess,  the.  Calve  sings 
role  of,  32,  260. 


276 


INDEX 


Covent  Garden,  84,  87,  110. 

"Damnation  de  Faust,"  258. 

Daudet,  Alphonse,  84. 

David,  Felicien,  20,  260. 

de  Beriot,  58. 

de  Gleiken,  Countess  Theo- 
dora, 95. 

de  Gray,  Lady,  96. 

de  Jonciere,  41. 

de  Lara,   87,   101,   235,   260. 

Delibes,  261. 

de  Musset,  233. 

de  Reszke,  Edouard,  104. 

de  Reszke,  Jean,  100,  101, 
104,  114. 

Desdemona,  57. 

de  Stael,  Madame,  255. 

de  Vere,  Clementine,  105. 

Devoyood,  177. 

"Djamileh,"  Calve  sings  in, 
261. 

"Don  Giovanni,"  103. 

Donizetti,  261. 

Don  Jose,  63,  100,  179-181. 

Dubois,  Theodore,  40. 

Duse,  Eleanora,  60,  61,  109, 
110. 

Eames,  Emma,  105. 
Elsa,  83. 
Escamillo,  233. 
Eugenie,  Empress,  89,  90. 


Fabre.  Heuri,  67. 
Falstaff,    108 


"Faust,"  31,  32,  101,  177, 
258. 

Fenice,  Theatre  de,  69,  70. 

"Flora  Mirabilio,"  Calv^  cre- 
ates leading  role  in,  42, 
43,  260. 

Folk-songs  of  France,  28,  86, 
88,  157,  217. 

Frezzolini,  49,  58. 

Gailhard,  157. 
Galli-Marie,  81-83. 
Garcia,  Manuel,  56,  57,  230. 
Gounod,  34,  37,  41,  196,  258, 

259. 
Grand  Duchess  Vladimir,  the, 

139,  140,  142,  143. 
Grau,  Maurice,  101,  102,  110, 

113-115,   122,    129. 
Grizi,  49. 
Gypsies,  Spanish,  11-14,  81, 

82,    257. 

Hahn,  Reynaldo,  97. 
Hamlet,    65,    247. 
"Hamlet,"  opera  of,  63,  101, 

139,    258. 
"Herodiade,"  32,  260. 
Herodias,  Calve  sings  role  of, 

32,  260. 
Hugel,  M.,  43. 
Hugo,  Victor,  247. 


lago,  103,  104. 
Irving,    Henry,   247. 

277 


INDEX 


ItalienS;  Theatre  des,  40,  41, 

47,  104,   161. 

"Jolie  Fille  de  Perth,"  Calve 

sings  in,  261. 
Juliet,   83,   245. 

Krauss,   37-40. 

La  Bastide,  Calve's  family 
home  at,  2,  15-19,  24-26, 
35,  36. 

Lablache,  49-51. 

Laborde,  Rosina,  44,  45,  47, 

48,  51-53,  55. 
"Lakme,"  Calve  sings  in,  261. 
Lalo,  261. 

Lamartine,  20. 
Lehmann,  Lilli,  105,  252. 
Leila,    Calve    sings    role    of, 

261. 
Leygues,  157. 
Lherie,   63. 
Lizt,   38-40. 
Loyson,     Father     Hyaeinthe, 

188,  189. 
Lucia,    Calve    sings    role    of, 

261. 
Lucia,    55,   63. 

"Magic  Flute,  The,"  261. 
Malibran,  44,  45,  49,  56,  57, 

233. 
Manhattan  Opera  House, 

111. 
Marchesi,  37-40. 


Marconi,    128. 

Marguerite,  Calve  sings  role 

of,   31,    32,   83,    101,    177, 

238,  245,  258-260. 
Mario,  49. 

Mascagni,  55,  63,  260. 
Masse,  Victor,  261. 
Massenet,  32,  84,  85,  87,  101, 

260. 
Maurel,   Victor,   40,   41,    65, 

103,  104. 
Mazzantini,  125. 
"Mefistofele,"  101,  258. 
Melba,  101,  105,  109,  114. 
Merimee,  Prosper,  100. 
Messaline,  Calve  creates  role 

of,  87,  235. 
"Messaline,"     opera    of,    87, 

101,    260. 
Metropolitan    Opera    House, 

99,  101,  102,  107-111,  113, 

129,   213,   261. 
Metternich,  Princess  de,  184, 
"Mireille,"  196. 
Mistral,    Frederic,    88,    195- 

200. 
Monnaie  de  Bruxelle,  Theatre 

de  la,  31. 
Mounet-Sully,  157. 
Mozart,    41,    103,    238,    260, 

261. 
Mustapha,  63-65. 

"Navarraise,  La,"  Calve  cre- 
ates leading  role  in,  84,  87, 
101,  245,  260. 


278 


INDEX 


New  York,  82,  99,  107,  110, 

129,    137,    211,    218,    244, 

246,  269. 
Nicolini,  163. 
"Noces   de   Figaro,"   32,   33, 

41,  260, 
Nordica,   105. 
Nourit,  254. 
"Nuit   de    Cleopatre,"    Calve 

sings  in,  261. 

Opera    Comique,    29,    41-43, 

79,  83,  106,  129. 
Ophelia,  Calve  sings  role  of, 

48,  55,  59,  66,  67,  69,  83, 

101,    139,    145,    238,    245, 

257,  258. 
Othello,  57. 

Pagliacci,   247. 

Palestrina,  64. 

Pamina,  Calve  sings  role  of, 

261. 
Paris,  23-28,  31,  37,  79,  97, 

106,  129,  211,  225. 
Pasta,  49. 
Patti,  Adelina,  47;   anecdote 

concerning   mother   of,   49, 

50,  69,   70,    129,    161-164, 

183. 
"Pecheurs    de     Perles,"     55, 

261. 
Peuch,  Denys,  65—67. 
Piermarini,  47. 
Plan9on,  101,  106,  114. 
Prince  Imperial,  the,  89,  90. 


Priola,  Marguerite,  264. 
Puget,  Jules,  27,  37. 

Rachel,   214,   233. 
Renaud,  268. 
Richepin,  Jean,  201. 
Rodez,  Bishop  of,  21. 
Romeo,  104. 
Rossini,   163,   184. 
"Roi  d'Ys,  Le,"  Calve  sings 
in,  261. 

Saint-Saens,  38. 

Salignac,  106,  107,  117-119, 

236. 
Salome,  Calve  sings  role  of, 

32,  260. 
Samara,  42. 
San    Carlo    of    Naples,    the, 

65,    56. 
Santuzza,   Calve   creates   role 

of,  in  Paris,  79,  80,  83,  90, 

95,  99,  107,  108,  245,  264. 
Sanz,  Elena,  174—176. 
Sappho,    Calve    creates    rfile 

of,  84,  245. 
"Sappho,"    opera    of,    84-86, 

260. 
Scala  of  Milan,  the,  42. 
Schumann-Heink,  105. 
Segond,   230. 

Sembrich,  Marcella,  104,  118. 
Shubert,  39. 
Siegfried,  104. 
"Songe    d'one    Nuit    d'fite," 

260. 


279 


INDEX 


"Sonnambula,"  261. 
Sontag,   45,   49. 
Spain,  Queen  of,  90,  91,  94. 
Strakosch,  Maurice,  162. 
Susanna,  Calve  sings  role  of, 

260. 
Susel,  Calve  creates  role  of, 

63. 
Svrami   Vivi    Kananda,    186— 

194,  203,  247. 

Tamagno,  258. 


Tamburini,  49. 
Ternina,   105. 
Thomas,  Ambroise,  261. 
"Tribut  de  Zamora,"  37,  38. 
Turridu,   107. 

Verdi,    103. 

Verlaine,  Paul,  97,  98. 

Victoria,  Queen,  87-96. 

Wilde,  Oscar,  96-98. 


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